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Poopypoetry May 2018
Be at ease
Because I'll be there
When the door opens and closes
The people in a hurry to get somewhere
Living empty lifes with lonely hearts

Be at ease
Because I'll be waiting
When the rumbling slows and rises again
The red lights burning bright
A giant moving towards it's destination

Be at ease
Because you're not alone
The iron friend moves along the tracks
He is meant for journey
Not for death
Poopypoetry May 2018
The night, young and  already passing
Never meant to be held for long
Brings a symphony of quiet sounds
Empty and cold against the backdrop
Of cold and unpersonal city lights

Bottles clink and echo in a silent backstreet
As shells of a night's earnings get discarded in a dumpster
And the radiator drips and drops
Accompanied by the sound of a ticking clock

Seconds string together moments
And they're always already gone

Before me the future stretched out
Once broad and promising
Now small and narrowing
It's promise unkept,
Abandoned on the verge of bitter forgetfulness

So what is it
That still hangs on
Is it hope, hamstrung
Stubbornly limping along

The moments know to always let go
And in the eye of the universe
I have already gone

Yet something clings on
And it is hesitant
frail and bashful
Afraid but wanting
Burning to be felt

In my mind resentful
Something splits apart
And I am holding now
Two handfuls
Of something that used to beat a heart
Poopypoetry May 2018
Broken goes
I tip and toe the undertow
Scratched dirt beneath scratched heels
Trailing paper and what I’d feel
If only I had something around my brain
To make me feel whole again
But nothing lasts longer than a cigarette
A can of beer, it’s all wasted breath
Expel the moment
What comes back
Atonement
For sins you think you might remember
But just a kid, a kink, when you were younger
Made your knees buckle, and you went under
Afraid to let go, afraid to surrender

Is it my fault
What has happened here
Time went out and I grew cold
Feeling older than the sum of my years
And it feels as if it’s all stitched together
Moments that collect themselves
In a tin bucket cheaply rendered
And it all feels wrong
Like violins in a marching band
No one knowing what they’re marching for
And everyone’s just waiting for it to end

— The End —