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It was foggy today,
Perfect for getting lost in the woods.
You asked to go on a hike with me,
To get lost among the Redwoods.
Perhaps you and I could just stay,
Hand in hand, where no one would see.
@LadyofRavenhill 11/14/16
Every mark on her skin
Beautiful, old or new
Tells a story or of a sin,
Only she who wears the marks
Can read them each to you.
@LadyofRavenhill 11/14/16
We have heard the words they preach
The Gospel carpetbaggers teach
That some of us can make their own rules.
Any white people that don’t are fools.
They redefine the meaning of equality
The gladly withhold my rights from me.
They choose what part of good is good
And happily red-lined my neighborhood.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.

They think us blind and cannot see
That they openly abhor equality.
They say one thing in the South
Up north they use another mouth,
And speak with a totally forked tongue
And push half the race down a rung.
They cry like they have all been hurt
But it is they who treat the rest like dirt.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.

There is no difference from your chant
And the Inquisition’s deadly cant.
These punishing words out of you
Are ages old, they are not new.
If Jesus were here to hear you start
This **** talk, it would break his heart.

Don’t wave your seditionist flag at me/
I believe in liberty, equality ad fraternity.
Your rhetoric is a disguise of old John Birch.
If I want to hear your hateful sermon
I prefer to have to go to your church.
 Nov 2016 Colten Sorrells
E
-
You cultivated, harvested and produced everything I would desire
like Embers, I was once discovered by your fire.

In my darkest hours you'd always give me reason,
like wildfires in unexpected seasons.

Every part of me learned to radiate,
ecstatically exposed to all your burning states.

Then came the day I turned into dust,
and like a volcano you annihilated my trust.

I was the property of a ****** arsonist,
and starting fires is how his wickedness vents.

It's hard to fathom that this started with little ignition,
because it grew so fast into a vicious obsession.

I asked you to stop smoking that day and it wasn't because I was simply sick of it,
I just hated the fact that I saw myself in your half dead-cigarette.

-
Sometimes your perfect "match" can perfectly burn you.
Our souls
instinctively seem to know,
all too well,
all of the matters that our minds
fail to comprehend.

Our minds
often tend to get
somewhat overwhelmed,
by all of the things
that they struggle to understand.

Our souls
travel more than a few steps
ahead of us - they are guided
by our blessed intuition.

The insight
from our souls
  develop into gut instincts -
it is to these,
that we should surely listen.

By Lady R.F ©2016
completely frozen
in that last tangible moment
her hollow thoughts
dispersing themselves
into the empty night

tasting the bitter drink of regret
she no longer hears
the whispers of possibility
her tattered soul
cries out into the darkness

blindly clutching onto a mere wisp
of some old ingrained belief
her over worked lungs
shutter with each new breath
keeping her well within its painful grasp

utterly destroyed
by the incompleteness of her reality
an unwanted companion of sorts
and
within her grasp
the cup of pain

she drinks in his absence begrudgingly

wondering how a vessel of such misery
was able to find its way
to her unwanted table
in all its gaudy adornment
simply holding its tragic message

fragmented thoughts
trying to cry out
but she is silent
no sounds escape
her pain...
well that becomes a simple compromise
that will stagnate in her lasting grief

the foul stench of remorse and bitterness
swirling about her senses
surrounded only by memories
of what could have been

her soul
lost
in this perpetual nightmare


and she no longer believes in fairy tales
Flies digest my dead thoughts as larva is left
to again once feed on the thoughts that weren't
totally digested and reverberating inside my skull.

My attention is waning and not as coherent as
it once was. I just hear an inherent murmur of
what died slowly digested within my scalp.

Why are my memories of before only faded
repetitions of what was fed upon before.
My mind is so dark with fluttering wings.

*"My mind has died and only the flies pick at my thoughts,
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