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Feed me your revolting hate.
Please strike me down once more.
I love how you leave me drained,
leaving me,
feeling like a *****.

A victim has never said these words.
Ever.
The victim is never the one doing the attacking.
****.
They are God's mistakes and the devils
rejects.
Down through the riverbed is an underlined truth;
They have it better than us.
Critters that walk with their own pace;
no plan really.
Creatures that **** because of need;
not for enjoyment.
Their sunny days are better than ours.
Their rainy days are heaven and hell.
We live with them, not them with us.
I cannot create a universe within structure.
My child like hands are not up for the job.
Rhyming this and taking out that,
A poem is simply an idea left for the masters.
Only they can show us the way.
They are the best reflections of God.
Oh show us the way!

"I don't want to."

Perfect.
Pour the magician a glass full of rainbows.
Pick your poison, pick your fuzzy pain.
Smash through walls and collapse from your sorrow,
It's 4.a.m again, there is nothing more to gain.
A shot for his royal pardons,
A sip for her lovely corpse.
The bottles leave you disheartened.
The ****** ***** you, now your voice is horse.
A forced laugh runs out of you;
there was once a happy child in those eyes.
Your world has left you ******, and bruised.
She's a magician and hides using the oldest disguise;

she hides inside your heart.
Beyond those pages of yours are truths,
and lies.
In these binders are clues,
for this life.
Reap the rewards of a good poem,
and please,
don't be afraid to die over and over,
within these books.

Miracles turn yellow over time.
Look at how they crumple when wisdom meets
you,
but only when it's right.
Young child of mine.
Indestructible only within my pages,
please,
don't be afraid to come with me and die,
over and over again.
A grasshopper is dead on my windowsill.
It's hopped its last hop.
A bee rest gently next to it.
It's rested on its last flower.
Beyond that though, they are alive.
They aren't alive in the archaic sense,
but their footprint is all around us,

beyond my windowsill.
I envy the shadow of a tree.
Oh how it dances every single day,
like clockwork; because it is.
Its green children in summer.
Its brown ones in fall.
All live and die multiple times.
No sleep for them, just white death;
black life.
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