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 Aug 2011 Conor Cleveland
Samuel
******* these
   ******* words these
                      ******* words are
all I have
             what?
letters on a page, not even a real page anymore, you've made sure
of that always accessible and easier to be online with things
   digital and cold

What did I think talking could change I
        preach the power of words and let them fall short
  stumble over each other in a race to get out of my throat

We'll change the world, sure think of a way to do that tomorrow could
I get back to you then I don't want to think about the process let's please focus on
The end result that might not happen but who cares, what is happening really and what is
For that matter we all could be ants I'd really like to go to Mars and discover how we began the
Human mind why would we want to learn about that it's not like we'll live forever let's just make ourselves
Happy so we don't have to plan for the future and then we can go drift like seaweed, forever free and
Weightless

Crazy talk.

Blasted folklore.
Blasted rock.
Blasted candles.
                         ganged up and
blasted me.
this is my last poem on this subject. I'm sorry if I am boring you guys.
 May 2011 Conor Cleveland
tread
The send and receive signal is blinking,
And the single mind is syncing to the altered pose of the twinkling stars above,
Via the screen and LED beams that stream into the seams of your consciousness.

Your brain is blessed,
Yet lacks the zest of wisdom once residing in your soul;
Outdated like coal, the role of the toll booth is old and invalid,
Like the side-dish of salad,
Replaced by the rancid infection of fast food,
What a bad mood society must be in.
You may die of respiratory inefficiency,
But you've got me to inform your next of kin.

You're not as blind as I would like you to be,
Yet you don't see as clearly as is necessary,
So I'm wary of your willful ignorance, as it's frightening and malignant,
Yet the signals sent don't pay my rent so I vent by waiting on Clark Kent to save the day,
He's on his way, right, Sir Gawain? Right, brave knight? Sir knight? Am I right?

Irrelevant,
So, for the hell of it,
I descend into a hedonistic viewpoint stuck in a pit,
Of what I call economically unsound wit;
Perhaps a writ of notice regarding my upcoming eviction,
They punish those who find pleasure in a lack of plight,
and claim their sanity is out of sight;
Well, ******* too,
I'll stage a coup so you can be you, through and through.

Please, freedom;
I need you to unlock the cages at this human zoo,
Because the free of us are too few,
And the few of us are who?

Speak up.
For the love not of God, but of life, speak up.
once in a town not far from a crick,
lived a young man by the name of Jack
Jack visited this crick daily,
it made him calm.
it gave him happiness,
it was his way of getting away from the town.
Jack had  a fear,
jacks fear is water.
He knew someday he would have to over come this.
That was the same night Jack decided to go swimming,
after he said goodbye to his family and friends.
He then left the town.
The next day he found washed up onto the meadow
next to his favorite crick.
Jack was dead.

— The End —