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A library of poetry
cannot articulate
what is found in
two minutes of Chopin.
c
These clothes, they hide
These clothes, conceal
And when these clothes slide off
There's nothing left to reveal

Unhooked clasps
Undone buttons
Just unwrap this body
'Til absolutely nothin'

My raw self for
Only you to view
Removing this fabric
Is saying that I trust you
We live in a world filled with disposable things
made to be used once, but seldom more than twice
with little or no attachment, we consume mindlessly
single-serving coffee or single serving relationships, it's all the same

We've learned to measure value in terms of convenience

Instant gratification comes with a price, but one we gladly pay
disposing of the evidence neatly and quietly, the carcasses
monuments to a purpose well served; vacant hearts never filled
material things only heal wounds superficially, but

nothing lasts forever, right?
*Our soulless smile, just another by-product of living a disposable life
another repost/remix
Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.
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