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Conner Tatum Jan 2011
Strangling
Crushing
Wasting
Words struggle to define
The state I find myself in time after time

Weights of worlds hold my actions
Tethered to my primal reactions

Seeking pleasure
Forgoing pain
All a part of a fickle game

Chances wasted
Opportunities dwindle

Necessary discomfort cast away
Like a crown of thorns blocking my way

I fight myself
a losing battle
I hear my aspirations death rattle
Conner Tatum Mar 2010
It
It is a boy,
It is a man,
It is the creature that nobody can stand

It is a lover
It is depraved
It is a genius
It is betrayed

It is a word of the highest caliber
It is the poet’s fantasy, the recurring themes in a madman’s daydreams
It conveys the volumes of minds untold
It is the refuse constantly retold

It is a sonnet to loves casualties
It brings the creator to its knees
It is your devil, the blackness inside
It is the light that hope makes shine

It is ingenuity of a child un-molded
It is the liberties of the enslaved
It is the bleakness of earths living dead
It is the fantasy trapped in my head

It is the monster of our utopia’s creation
It is the bloated corpse of the heroes of old
It is the morals of the degenerates’ societies
It is the love of the undying

It is you, it is me
It is everything no one can see
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— The End —