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the bigness of cannon
is skilful,

but i have seen
death’s clever enormous voice
which hides in a fragility
of poppies….

i say that sometimes
on these long talkative animals
are laid fists of huger silence.

I have seen all the silence
full of vivid noiseless boys

at Roupy
i have seen
between barrages,

the night utter ripe unspeaking girls.
Tracing the outline of her face
On a photograph she’d given me once
What now seems like so very long ago
Smoothing out the torn corners
As I once smoothed out her wild hairs
Ignoring the fading colors
Trying to remember just the way she felt
Running a finger from her chin to her cheek
Examining the crease of her smile
Before gently pressing fingers to
The two small beauty marks beside her nose
You can barely notice the one
But I’ll never forget it
I can recall every detail so perfectly
As if we had never even been apart
But it’s been ages now and I’m not sure
If my memory still serves me right
That’s why so often these days
I pull this picture free
From the folds of my wallet
And gaze at it for hours
Photo paper so worn and glossless now
Grown thin from the countless times
I’ve sat and traced that beautiful face
Only to do it a thousand more
Until there’s holes in this photograph
And my memory of her is all that remains
Fear is a natural feeling,
A part of life
To be afraid of something in this world
Is not so farfetched a thought
Death, being hated, never finding love
All completely fair to be afraid of
But the irrational fears that some have
Simply never cease to amaze me
And let me inform you,
That this is a true story
A mother who stabbed
Her husband with a fork
At the dinner table
While the children watched
Four prongs pierced skin and veins alike
Blood showered forth
As ketchup from the bottle
The children were devastated to say the least
Now twenty two years later
That same little boy from the kitchen table
Sits in the restaurant haunted and alone
No date, no friends, no company
Eating his steak with a plastic spoon
He murmurs something about
Forks being a leading cause of death
What a sad and untrue statistic
~

I'm letting go,
allowing myself to drown in delusions
for the very first time.
I know
you don't believe me
when I say
I'd prefer you
not
to love me
and I know
it doesn't matter
because
you're going to
anyhow
because you're stubborn
and naive
and you don't understand
how miserable
love can be.
Everyone feels broken sometimes
It's easier that way

We want to be broken
Because, if we're broken,
Then  we can be fixed

Right?

Then there's hope
Things can improve

Right?

It's harder to accept
This is just how life is

This misery
This pain
This dying
This is just normal

It doesn't get better
But it deosn't get worse either
The only thing that can change is your attitude towards it.
I feel like giving up
My , once deep, reservoir
Of strength
Has been drained
Drained by the countless people
Saying things to me
About Me
Against me
Always me
Why me
**** me
I hate me
I wish just for once that someone would care
Maybe I'm not being reasonable
Maybe I'm being over sensitive
Maybe I'm being stupid
O how I wish I was stupid
But I am far from that
And maybe the smarter you get
The emptier your reservoir becomes
Thays the only explanation
The other one was just me grasping
Grasping for something to understand
Hoping
Wishing
Praying
That just for once in my
*******
Useless
God forsaken
*******
Life
That maybe just once
I would be Ok
I would be someone else

I understand not my life

your life is not made to be  understood

but then why did you give me this

because you need to understand not to understand

show me

I cannot

**** me

I cannot

save me

*I will not
Penelope sneeze.
Then again.
Her Nose ran.
She took out a handkerchief.
Her mother had brought her.
That Christmas before.
That almost covered her nose.
Blew, filled it.
And in disgust.
Looked for tissue.
For her nose she must empty.
Penelope blew.
This is my 200 poem, cool I did not know I would enjoy writing so much.
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