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Henry Brooke Oct 2014
Hear the warden mumble,
Oh, count his every steps.
Hide away your treasures,
and clean away the mess.

Metal hinges an omen,
their shriek means nothing good.
Hold of your breath and heartbeat
as the corpse does in the woods.

Glue your teeth together
Oh, put your fears aside.
Jump into the bunk bed,
convinced it's only lies.

Catch a drop of moisture,
Running down your cheek.
The ceiling upstairs is leaking,
just as it has been for weeks.

Focus on the thunder,
Oh, count each brutal ray.
Notice the cladded boot-heels
Get closer every day.

Dream of that cruel sentence,
the one that wakes up to ****.
Imagine feeling empty,
your mind completely still.

Reopen the old memories,
the ones you thought you'd lost.
Kiss those vague companions,
which's faces you've forgot.

Calm those inner voices,
Oh, believe there's no despair.
Yet smell a fire burning,
Under the gibbet's stairs.
Henry Brooke Oct 2015
Cocktail sadness
breaking through, the light is fading
so will you.
Wave at the ages pasing by
oh so slowly, feel and cry.
Another day gone in the making
you never remember the lists,
beach friends memories erode
nothing's left but words of old.
And you don't want that girl
your're only here for ***,
and she just likes the way
you dance out that clumsy cigarette.
Nothing's there or present
so you try to write it down,
you wove a crown of feelings
but no flowers lye around.

Let's give it some meaning?
Let me find the luck,
Let's build a treehouse
out of all the dead stuff
Henry Brooke Feb 2015
Unamed princess
from a far set up parish
cup my hand into
your's again please

Let the willows I imagine
now whistle gently the tune
of my dreams
long gone.
Ask the child suppressed in you
if the lives we live here
are what we at that time
found true ?
We both think
we probably could speak out an answer
but in the end
we know well grow and regret just the same.

Your dress is tight, your smile is bright
just everything in this light seems right
Yet I'm getting worried more and more
that pleasures close some doors.

What are we chasing after
is it happiness, is it pleasure
maybe serenity or an epic treasure  
The thing is
nowone really knows
not even the priest,
bless him,
For if Peter exists he surely
highlight these names of peace.

I somehow wish
to spit these thoughts
right out my tumoring brain
and cleanse the
real felt pain.
I grab you by the neck now
your wonderful dress
pressed under my feet and
the park's green grass
as pin does over a bug.

I take you here, in the middle
of the park tucking it all down
you frown as I push the gown too
Now it faces me
I can clearly see a thing.

Are we promised anything ?
Are human beings just ******
old animals bright and clever
enough to know sister from lover
enemy from brother
winter from summer
marmalade from butter ?  

Animals do not worship
they don't create republics nor kingships
Even though they
were here first.
Evolution has changed their face
and the length if their tails
that's it, but here we all are
Only ten million Years counting
and already we fight
over who really is god's son

Like a ***** deep inside
its hole like any human on a beach
in the middle of a night.
I can sense things hugging
around me dripping smooth
transparent curtains of
cosmic covers

We both think we probably
could speak out an answer,
to the questions left to decipher.
But in the end we will probably
forget the problems brung up
by today's day and age
And since we will,
like everyone else;
it surely musn't have
been that important.
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
Absence of imagination,
the End of independent thought.
Cities reek of corruption, ******
and the greatest of sins.
They raise and **** in
by the millions
yet onlysome men
seem to win.

Glorious eyes
of curve-free posters
used as wallpaper
for the cleanest streets.
Looking up
to their Father
all good citizens
try to weep
the plain and empty tears
the Party demands
them sheep.

Maybe it will soon end,
but I'm never able to trust us men;
maybe weeks will tell,
but I still can't seem to hear a bell

Inside the people's empty homes,
Fathers, sons left alone.
Big Brother dominates,
he commands,
a billion voices
in one hand.

Behind the money lies the pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets
walk the road
a thousand stories
left untold.

Blood can be found on every street,
death and life here meet.

Maybe it'll someday end,
but I'm never able to trust us men,
maybe years will tell;
but I still can't seem to hear a bell.

A hungry stomach calls for meat,
rotting, green, foul or sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens,
will be served,
millions of peoples
have reserved.

Between the alleys at the mass
the cross’s shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy,
use them well,
let vain ideas
fry in hell.

Maybe it's will oneday end,
but I'm never able trust us men.
maybe our grandhildren
shall one day know,
Their grandeparents wept
but did not
It's about freedom, or rather the abscence of it.
Henry Brooke Sep 2014
A ship sails empty of reason,
captains fear the treasons.
Silent and smooth is how it'll fall
the cabin-boy shall take the bar.

Blood can be found on every street,
both death and life here meet.
Life is a dying mystery,
pray god has blessed your destiny.

Outside the people's empty homes,
fathers, sons, left alone.
Big Brother dominates, he commands.
A billion voices in one hand.

Absence of imagination,
the End of independent thought.
Cities reek of corruption, ******
and the greatest of sins.
They raise and **** in
by the millions
yet only some men
seem to win.

The ocean itself is a burden,
bad dreams require a surgeon.
Twist well open the sails to Rome
if you flee the country, flee alone.

Between the alleys at this mass
the cross's shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy, use them well,
let vain ideas fry in hell.

Our viscious masters do predict
the fall of  Troika and rise of  Six.
A crew who drains such futile ink
is sure to drown us down the sink.

Save me from the grim Tomorrows
full of hate deceit and sorrows.
Oh, it's not about tyranny,It's human kind.
Justice is neverreally blind.

Glorious eyes
of curve-free posters
used as wallpaper
for the cleanest streets.
Looking up
to their Father
all good citizens
try to weep
the plain and empty tears
the Party demands
them sheep.

Behind the money lies the pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets walk the road,
a thousand stories left untold.

I hope one day it could end ,
just by cutting down his head.
They hunt down anyonenot in line,
should we attempt this, is there time ?

Unfathomable ,
his hungry stomach calls for meat;
rotting, green, foul and sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens will be served,
for all the glory
he deserves.
Trapped under the ice,
in nineteen fifty-two.
A marxist society
led by one man,
with hope-filled speeches
but blood on it's hands.
Henry Brooke Sep 2015
Cleopatra, Cleopatra
take down those fangs of yours
for while you're mad all Egypt cries
oh, will you leave us all alone

Loved alike by loosers and champs
both snow and rain
twain king and *****
We yield Cleopatra, Cleopatra
oh, please leave us alone

Fire to the heart
a glacial wind to the brain
the honest is vanquished
the poor is slain
No more Cleopatra, Cleopatra
now let us drop the arms.
Quick write, about a girl that I care for.
Henry Brooke Dec 2014
The head too feels a cold rush
like those cheeks of yours
will never ever blush
again; that the sun is
a sin and yet it sets again.

Tears come to meet the pain,
but the blizzard hand advances
freezing it all to rain.
Falls onto you like never before,
this planet is are dungeon;
can love give any more ?

Nothing is planned for it is just.
Death must win and life must rust.
Your friends will break it all again:
rotting in eternal flames.
Because it is written
yes, it was said.

God almighty makes us dread
his bony fingers slipping
through the register of death
holding captive every name
and soul at rest.
A simple word in a ****** book,
is forever and ever there.

Miserable duplicates we have been,
going about an earth of spleen,
teeming through porous holes,
scooping through life as would a mole.
Reckless mammalian salesmen/experts,
speaking, sleeping eating, and guessing in vain
to someday meet his horrid train:
If angels were men they'd be robots
blinded by the barrel of a gun;
fulfilling an order for order's sake
flying about as they awake.
All part of the cold infinite sludge;  
everyone an equal precooked piece
of the holy celestial cake.
A bit pretentious, please close your eyes over the whole thing, Try to get the general image . Thank you
Henry Brooke Jul 2014
A black ball of grime,
two legs sticking out
of the top.
Gooey and all covered
in slime, it's silently bleeding
and cannot stop will not stop.
Farrell the adventures,?
Farwell the friends that made
his arial travels shorter,?
his stare is not with us
anymore?he has forgot 
whatever friends?there ever was ?

Dead Pigeon. ?

Tossed like a pile of ****.t?
ran over a couple dozen of times ?
by tires and people's kicks.?
But he is dead he just won't ?react,
someone please do ?something! ?

Dead Pigeon. ?

The bird deserves a burial ?
he is calling at me
with ?his glossy eyes:
?asking me to help
?but I can't?
Dead Pigeon?
But he still lives!
?His eyes, veiled,
bloodshot and?black,
point at the gutter?as if to say: ?
Oh the Horror! ?**The Horror!
I feel ashamed for humans
Henry Brooke Jan 2016
D on't
E ever
P retend
R eason
E xceeds
S olidarity;
S imply
I gnore
O ngoing
N egativities.
Henry Brooke Jan 2015
Things so hot and dark
your mind rejects them altogether;
Nearly burning hotter
than the worst summer breeze,
My body aches into a spasm
in this mindless night, agreed
to let it win; the thing
society breaks down
as an unreasonable sin.

Forest of Pine,
a place without a sign.
Tagged as "wasteland"
on paper, reason itself
came to erase her.
Eraser of control,
breaker of conformity,
The woody mist of boggy brime
sweeps through my nose:
There is something here,
my map is rigged,
shadows alone prove
how good it is to hide:
Hear the river ride ?
Months into the world,
adopted from disbelief.
Raised to your feet:
you've heard some
wild game at last.

Hunger tears your skin,
Lashes your eyes and chin,
A grin opens your face
Splashing it with so called
Sin. Blood rushes to  
Secret extremities
While your brain
Refuses the remedies:
A thing the opposite ***
Just cannot get:
You must grab, stab and
Kiss unlike ever done before.
She feels just like
A champion,
Love drips from all your pores.
You want to make it yours,
Put her on all fours,
And just live through
The mist and answer its call:
Join the frantic ball.

Venus of the fountain,
Generously living through
Life with seriousness.
Sparkling like a cascade
Of wine and milk and
Bubbles of tears arouse
The sky;
A land quite different
You might ask why
Even wander around the
Dark forest ?
Her attributes are near perfect,
Surely this voyage is worth it.
Again, a place to which
the opposite *** could not react.
Tagged "wasteland" on
Their map.
This land is made
of dreams
You can smell like the bud
Of a rose outside in the rain.
You can touch the petals,
And were a real smile:
Even ***** your finger
On the REAL thorns
Even see blood,
Feel the mud,
Erase lifes disgusting crud
For what seems to us as
Longing years.

We need a connection.
Surely you cannot understand
Our imperfections
Without knowing the occupations
Stimulated by these locations
We all hold dear
In the world of Mars.
Venus, throw a flower to
us stupid men again
for we apologize sincerely,
Not to make this end bitterly,
But you might consider this
We can't get out these lands
That raised us from stone to
Flesh and bone.
And with you we do seem to miss home..

Look at your map,
It's quite different from mine,
But try to keep in mind
It's yours
If you would
Just give that hand.
Free write. Metaphors for my dilemma
Henry Brooke Oct 2014
Afraid of  humiliation,
It's sour smell and taste
Reaches up to my heart
And triggers my fears,
Which lit up all at once.
What a fire.
I cannot hold this is,
The jealousy won't fit in,
The fear grabs me again by
The responsibilities.
The fire is near,
I will try to jump over it,
But I have just noticed it's heat.
Will I burn my wings ?
Will I save the day ?
Does it at all matter
If the others make it safe
Who am I to envy
The ones that aren't me
How can I crave security
Like this, dying,
Dying to wait for
Life to reach the stake !
I know I am late,
But, aware I will run, as fast
As my legs will carry me.
Taking life's chance.
Free write. The direct transcription of my emotions
Henry Brooke Nov 2014
Pretty liar, daughter maid
Yet cannot bring herself to rage.
Carved from stone,
raised to flesh and bone:
See the spots of the tiger,
A vicious tongue of viper,
Let it all awake in you
stings of displeasure
that will ring true.

Flex that heavy package
not letting the mask fall off.
You've always been taking :
now you're giving what I've lost.
I have something that needs filling
Leaking, it could use some drilling.
Slippery when wet,
Mind your cautious steps
when the demons leave their nest.

Right around the enemy's border
All her treasures lie asleep.
Paint the walls with ****** ******
Envy, my master, is what you seek.
Thoughts in my head.
Henry Brooke Feb 2015
**** it,
I'm done.
I can't take this **** anymore
someone is palying a trick on me
it's like the world was made
mean for the purpose of my own personal torture.
Too much suffering for one man,
surely this isn't just
my life was made to rust.
I am deceived by everyone,
those who speak the alien toungue
of hate, ***, and pride
those who aren't alive.
I've been tourmented
I've been ******
False hope given then
driven back down to suffocate
in an abyss of black ink
as if to make me long the
smell of the deserved air.
To whatever is pulling those
On behalf of a simple mortal being
******* .
gimmick suicidal letter to whom it may concern.
Henry Brooke Jul 2014
The clonds
their feet
start to turn gray .

No one notices until a young
chérubin stops to say

Lord, the night is upon us
should we fear her ?
for she is getting near.

All stop and look,
in amazement
as for the fist time since creation
the light over their head starts
to turn back to black
and some angels can't stop
from running overthe clouds
falling to earth,
escaping the black menacing track.

That day, the sun on heaven set .
Dark gloomed and stormed ahead
unstoppable onto the bretheren set
all together their father at it's head
all frightened, looking
helpless while the gold on the gates
were muffuled into ***** bars of yellow
some eyes firmly closed, faces
frozen by the abscence of the natural halo
eyes all wide open mouths shut
others whispering in the light the of night
" Father! Flee should we not? "

The next day,
the mesterious
dark monster's tail had finally
passed over the horizon
Light could come back to heaven
but did not leave without planting turmoil
in paradise's still trembeling soil.

Between the surviving angels
a terrible secret was being whispered
between pauses of scared pointing
and panting breathing ..

Uriel had seen something terrible.

As the dark covered the sky
with it'sobscuring veil..
In all the horror of the panic
that followed the lost of the light
Uriel saw something that wasn't right.

God, father of all angels was looking
straight ahead at the approaching
and menacing beast,
arms simply resting
on his knees.

his glorious lips began trembling
and as another hundred
angels fell desperately
to their death
hoping to find rest.
Uriel saw a single tear roll
like one of God's fallen angels
from his cheek onto his knees
staining with the divine liquid
on one of the libraries scroll.

So God had shed a tear..
The Angels knew now
the bell would toll .
Henry Brooke Apr 2020
Hello you, welcome to my home !
It's a sunny day today, yet have you come alone ?

Listen around to the trees and their green leaves,
hear the slow sprouting boil around gently,
it seems as if this place is simmering :
a true piece of paradise
out of time.

You've come to this cemeteray, the Cimetière Pere Lachaise no less,
to see Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin i suppose ?
Wise man, their tombs are monuments
and they are very sweet ghosts.

But I can see you've stopped your mind just now on a
secondary sepulture, on a winding path few explore
that is my home, this is my voice.

I know it's pretty right ?
It dosen't look half as good in winter, it's so grim,
yet with all these bees, and trees and yellow and sun
and crimson and blue and white, i bet you've never
seen a prettier picnic place.

I died 20 years ago, you weren't born.
It's okay, it didn't hurt much, and when you die
you sort of get to choose what you do,
you can roam around, you can disapear,
you can stay near your grave,
you can even wait for someone dear,
though that's what i think they call hell.

I choose to wake up every summer,
when it gets warm, i get to feel alive again,
i get to wander the park and rush elbows with people
and tourists, i look at the colorful clothes.

When you die you become sort of eternal,
like an idea of yourself
you aren't
you aren't any longer
thirsty or hungry,
nor sad or happy,
you sort of live in the forever
it dosen't feel bad to be honest.

Anyway, you can stay a little longer, i don't get much visits
thanks for looking at my stones,
and don't forget that life is the
sweetest thing
the universe has ever
*Carpe Diem
Henry Brooke Jun 2015
**** it,
I'm done.
I can't take this **** anymore
someone is playing a trick on me
it's like the world was made
mean for the purpose of my own personal torture.
Too much suffering for one man,
surely this isn't just
my life was made to rust.
I am deceived by everyone,
those who speak the alien toungue
of hate, ***, and pride
those who aren't alive.
I've been tourmented
I've been ******
False hope given
then driven back down
to suffocate
in an abyss of black ink
as if to make me long the
smell of the deserved air.

To whatever is pulling those
on behalf of a simple
mortal being who
dosen't know your ugly face:
I will not laugh.
I shall not cry.
But you are dreaming if you think
I'll give up on my dreams.
Numbers are numbers,
and I'm not on a scale.
So come back where you came
cause I'm gonna try
twice as ******* your ***.

I forgive myself of the pain I am,
having always believed I wasn't a man
and though I feel
the darkness rise to conquer
I will always believe
that light is stronger.
I need some air. This is an open window. I posted this a long time ago but needed to rewrite it just to get over some bitter bitter feelings.
Henry Brooke Apr 2015
Fresh cut grass ,
the smeel is cast
that hidden stone is
clear and white atlast

It's grain is smooth
from rain and soot
Live again you ancient bed
of that passed river
which was ounce said
to hold
the earth
to balance

Uncountable names
stories forever muffled to die
in vain
A people so wide,
the crowd so many    
someone like you
probably lies here too.

Layers of Time
that all mix up
to a bundle of nothing
A piece of cloth, a needle and a bone
inbetween messengers
from dead things
to home

They went down the ground
like worms, mice and
burnt wood
Yet the grass dosen't carry their burden
for it's there you went and stood
upon their past
Not even sheding a tear
not even trying to hear

And some still hope life never ends
that you never go to sleep
the ultimate cup of coffee
fresh enough
to grind your way through eternity
buying you
a good class ticket
to the Postcard Scenery of  
Lambs and Serenity

Fresh cut grass ,
the smeel is cast
that hidden stone is
clear and white atlast
Clouds approach:
I must resort
Farewell you lands
of Tears and Hope
I love Archaeology
Henry Brooke Dec 2015
We kissed,
Well she did rather
I just ate her tongue
Out with an rotten appetite.
Not feeling turned on
Not hearing the song
Just responding
Answering back
My **** in my pocket
My heart in my back.
I didn't connect.
She did.
I like her.
But my friend called her fat
So I feel like I shouldn't
Though deep inside I don't
Give a flying ****
Not because I don't care
But because it doesn't matter
She freaking likes me
**** how rare
And I'm here saying no
To what I need and want
Basically she is awesome inside
And awesome out
Out of her sticky brown eyes
I can't get out.
She would still have me:
She accepts my stupidity
and lack of faith in myself.
But do I really want it
Can the pain be dealt?

I did the right thing though
I feel good to have cut it off quite correctly
Because there's another
To which I promised something
So I'm acting correctly really.

Don't want to loose her as a friend
College is lonely as it is
I want her to feel my pain
So she understands more
And so she won't put a cross on me
Because I need more time
Because she is really sweet
I'm posting this just cause i never read my drafts. I don't consider it a great work it just helps me get **** out
Henry Brooke Jul 2015
When out of luck, we ****** our trust
To bitter pointless Seas,
Objects to objects \ love to love
Oh why cannot we be free.
An insect croaks in the head-jelly,
A cuckoo beats in the chest.
While pearls of salt from children's follies
Come crashing down our necks.

He's mud on **** shoes: Never clean,
And though he loves her
Like a dream, they're still apart;
The grass stays green :
You cannot conquer the unseen.
Watching, the invisible policeman shouts:
Evil is lurking, check your route!
But never shall I ever choose his way
I am human
I seize the day.

Flies will eat our faces,
Truly we all rot. This I said to teach
You something life will not.
Screaming along, the Ugly and vain
The cracking full, or Empty train
Rings the official bell of welcome,
Although it only means goodbye.
And yet lovers still wave across the pier
While some others break a lie.
Wrote this thinking about the one
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
today you've
passed away.

Found under a bridge :
on earth you wouldn't stay.
Lost for six days,
on the seventh
but dead you where
when they found you
facing down.
Not much friends
people say,
alone like a ghost .
At lunch, his table always
stayed empty,
never to be
dedicated a
His face is of
childhood beauty :
the one that stings
and strikes.
Now that he returned
from his one-way journey,
kids, inventors of nicknames,
suddenly start to
Who were you?
Just the dude that looked ugly.
Now where lie you ?
In a ditch all full of mud,
****** .
You are the Jesus with no cross :
the unforgettable Robin.
The king with no name,
the lion without a mane.
Maybe you were different :
as nice as people
were mean.
Maybe you just needed
from all the rejection
the silent bites, and all the unseen
strikes to your rights,
the unfair fights.
Your life
17 dead candles,
blown away with all the rest
by you final daring, descisive,

Although you aren't here
and although this isn't all clear
I wish you the best of luck
O Robin from wherever
please hear.
Poem I wrote when a kid from my high school commited suicide and we all found out about it. It's a sign of respect to someone I didn't know.
Henry Brooke Dec 2015
I wish we were together
Not world's apart like this
Not touching is one thing
But there's much more that i miss

I miss your face
Your words, and breath
The morning surprises
And midnight sets

I've never seen your face
North heard your voice
For you think you're ugly
That your voice is coarse

Show yourself honey
Well see how I feel about you
I can't take it anymore
Because you're beautiful inside.

What if you were a treasure
Hiding in disguise?
Same girl.
Henry Brooke Apr 2018
Voice of reaon,
calm soothing nerdy one,
quite close to you although internaly
lightly bruised
by his celebrity,
it's with great felicity that
he waves at you
through his blue or brown eyes
you can fell even through the grizzing

and there are cheers as his breath says good bye
and his hand does the peace and love
and all gathered around him
shove friendly for a handshake
milkshake of people and smiles
he's gonna win this race
we are gonna end this
hatred about race

he's gonna fix some thing
he's gonna be good
he's gonna put us in a time
we could't have dreamed of in a milion year
we always wished it come
paradise,  yet fresh here in america
next is the world
next is the world
next is living together

he shook many hands as the ground around us shook
with the foots walking and pushing gently
behind his podium like a bird
he calmly politely turned around
and smiled still as he left with some body guards

everyone was still chanting and it was all so good

we had a messiah
a not bought polition
he was white inside
and every color out
so he walked in the
filled hall like a fruit basket
airs of

he has been shot
**** what is he saying what have I heared
let me fold my glasses what this is absurd
he was our messiah he was the peace
and now a metal piece thrown through him you say ?
now please let me not stay here
oh wow
like his brother
its so sad
its takes my words a away
i didnt want him to not continue
he was ours
we were his
all together on the same
lether swing singing
and so happy and fun just one second ago
his smile still shines on me
and now

now well,
we need to find a solution

but i cant look

i want to protect them from the crooks.

peace and love

rip jfk + rk
after wathcing a video of the Robert kennedy assasination
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
Hymths of wild hearts,
laced fresh with fruit and bark.
Knots of light hair
loosely tied together,
as birds in the fountain leave
feather after feather.

A *** of jam
black with sugar,
covered lid means lick it all over.
Berries, peaches and death,
are all targets for theft.
The three seem pleasant,
under the moon lit crescant
but Jacob and Jesus said Wait!
Do not bite the bait!
For the reaper's never late.

Afternoons turns into years,
from the cracks of bitterness
spill our tears.
It leaves damp, shameful spots
nothing can contain them.
except tombs or pots.

The jeweller's creations
lies in a mansion,
the servant eye the gold produce,
for with all their logic
it can't reach use.

Let's get out.
Let's take a hold of our lives
and bring it together.
We can live in a cave and
we'll change in summer.
Just don't abuse of nature's gifts
for what you take it here's and if
you get lost scream out loud for
leeches will **** blood
through the ground.

A empty *** of jam,
still black with sugar.
lack of jelly means open another.
Worries. Prayers, dire death.
Are the only problems we have left
The three seem poisonous
under the empty sky
but Jacob and Jesus said
Go on. Try !

Hymths of wild hearts,
laced fresh with fruit and bark,
open the gates let's sail the wind
And **** the sugar out of sin.
Free-write, discret critique of religion.
Henry Brooke Jul 2014
Yellow, grey black and white,
the only colors filling these grounds .
Here, no familiar animals turn around,
life's worst enemy is the world itself
a place where nothing
is ever safe and sound .
Lives only what can endure a living,
Survives only what can find a daily serving
of another living thing,
for food
before eating it rapidly
as to not attract
the four, five
sometimes six eyed
and not end up deceived,
caught, in another one's

Nothing living for three hundred
meters around..
Except a small three legged snake
maybe what used to be a lizard.
Our little friend quickly disapeers
into a valley of mountains of concreet and cement slabs,
escaping the dangerous air
he is getting back quick
he needs to reach his lair
suddenly, on the way he stops.

Staring at an familiar old strange logo
frozen in a rock reading :
2132 Champions the mighty Red socks.
Not knowing letters
the lizard makes it's way,
creeping through a crack in a bathtub
to reach its destination and stay,
a skull used as a house,
a round rock of bone
filled all the way
with sand, not smiling because
the toxic air has eaten up all
of it's fake teeth,
looking at an old piece of rust
it still forces itself a grin
like if wanting to say "Smile I must !"

Our lizard stops,
his eyes wander around
the ground although sand
is the only thing to be seen
here with concrete.
It has been a long time since
our lizard hasn't met another
of his race.
It wasn't the same when
he was just a child,
things move at such a pace!

Our lizard is now getting sleepy,
his eyes fall as his plated
neck stays straight.
When shall he find food ?
Will he find food ?
Will he be eaten, will he die ?
He asks himself in his old fractured scull,
before stoping ounce again
to close his eyes and listen
as he always loves to do,
to that same acid and toxic breeze
flowing on top of the blocks.

And although he should feel
happy, although he feels distressed,
he can't help to believe :
"What a mess !"
Inside the mind of a lizard which has servived the apocalypse.
Henry Brooke Nov 2015
on these cobbled beaches
of streets so bland, suburban sadness
streches like sand.
and out of the fog
the one that kills the bugs and people
leaving them dead, unanimated
along the flagpole, i feel it creep.
the beloved one is here,
far and close from my heart,
close and far from me,
yet nothing ever happens,
no results to see,
the fog could last a year
and wouldn't still grow up

she's pretty,
in my dreams at least.
How sad.
A virtual g̶i̶r̶l̶friend
I could Love
Henry Brooke Jun 2016
I met a girl I may not meet
I love this girl I cannot touch
I love this girl who lives far away
beyond reasonable doubt
we cant ever say
when it will ever start.
It's getting too close
its like I'm in love with a ghost.
She in a life but
not the one I wish to live.
100 times a think of this
and still we kiss we kiss we kiss.
I'm afraid I'm worshipping a mark
that I will never be able to rub off
I want to be honest and tell her
I want her,
And I'm lost because I can't,
I talked to her because I was lonely,
now I'm lonely because I want more.
That's a little bit my fault.

I told her everything,
except when I cheated on her
from across the sea,
because I gotta get it.
I can't help it.
And it kills me to know she prob does the same.

In tonight's dream we met again
but she was with another man
and all I wanted was to leave
this world of dreams and seal
this deal.

So I'm getting too close to a cold sun.
I let myself do this,
here's to you Vic:

Let's be honest,
Let's share life,
Let's be crazy,
Let's be fast,
Let's be slow,
Let's be forever,
Let's be a show,
Let's be the ground,
Let's be the nothing,
Let's be hole,
Let's be the stuffing,
Let's be a team,
Let's be together,
Let's be supportive,
In any weather.
Let's be happy,
we found each other,

Don't cry because it's mortal,
Smile because it had the luck to be.

Let's be the dirt,
Let's be ****,
Let's be a thousand
more days of luck.
Let's be Juillet and Roméo,
Let's be two strangers in the know,
Let's be an ******,
Let's be my dream,
Let's be The light
that can't be seen,
Let's be that thing
you never touch
Let's be the Light that can't be seen
but that you see,
Let's be that thing you can never touch
but that you touch,
Let's be a walkie talkie,
Let's be one,
Let's be a story,
Let's be sung,
Let's be boring,
Let's be numb,
Let's be worried,
Let's be hung,
Let's be something,
Let's be almost nothing
but still something,
(where already that)
Let's be Sumner,
Let's be winter,
Let's be all ages together,
Let's be lucid,
Let's be wise,
Let's be my sister just came back home really sad from failing her exam and It sort of bring me back from reality. One where you have to sign bills and dreams break in pieces. So now I have to get back in the mood of writing this without failing the general idea. I just reread the whole thing and it seems stupid.
Let's be synchronised,
Let's be doubtful,
Let's be sad,
Let's be mad,
Let's be alive,
Let's have a dream
I'm just realising the only reason I'm feeling good is that I have a dream you.
Let's break the boredom,
Let's melt the chains
and make our own
Let's build
Let's break,
Let's gjxzl
vj jzpa
About that same girl,
This is how what I want it to be
Henry Brooke Dec 2015
Long walks under the sun.
Tender brains in unsure men,
A breeze caresses the pines
A rocky ocean shore below
Nothing to do,
Just somewhere to go.

Red shirts, marihuana, alcohol.
Friendship and love
Blossoming through time,
The blue sky dressed above
By some superintendent devil's.
For these memories
Act like drugs
On my depressed brain now.

It was long ago,
Yet I'm still here.
That church eating away the
Sunlight, had a christ with no legs
Three years later I understand.
Memories are echos,
We hear them clear
We know deep inside what we
Want to hear
But the shore gets higher
And longer and wide
The sound is now a Cowbell, or a stain,
A dead mouse and
her dry dead remains,
A footstep in sand that left
before I said it could.

Which sunk into the sea,
before I wished it should.

What are we left with
When we feel regret?
I feel
like I've let something go,
Somehow, and what?
How can I know

So I linger here
On my empty bed,
Without any happiness
And blood in my head
Those red shirts popping
everywhere I feel
I am abandonned
Buried away
I shouldn't shouldn't have hurried
I should have stayed.

Yet it's all over,
Those men are gone.
They're out on the ocean
Singing new songs.

When satan is nye
Wild wheat is ****
Human is animal
Friendship is seed
I'm so depressed right now. Thinking about the good old days.
Henry Brooke Feb 2016
easy she just said
easy and so she
pull out your heart to me
being alone
being a lord is
you break the
brand old TV.
loose the control
Crush it your hole
is gaping,
sailing on,
is Easy.
burn all the sticks to
make a fight
to forget
oh easy
burn all the
text to show
a light
go next.
lyrics. mixed a song I like.
Henry Brooke Apr 2015
Pretty Liar, oh
my daughter-maid
who cannot bring herself to rage.
Carved from a river stone,
she was sketched and carved
to flesh and bone.
A viscious toungue of sea-bed viper
clamps to ankles of dead-like surviors.
How cruel these final moist moments are..
Not even allowing the sea-men
to shoot a glimpse
at the angel behind the bar
bringing them down from afar.
Nor to see the spots
of the velvet tiger
before their ears and nose
crushed, kiss together.
Henry Brooke Dec 2015
She could be there

Through the zipping window
Down and laid upon
Clouds of sunken sadness
You could walk along.

You imagine her
In a place she's not
That spot is the real
The un-forgot

In the romance
That seaside house
Fish smells, books
The forever new

A room with a view
A nest for two
A friend for you
Forever true

Yet the window keeps
whizzing and you remember
how much always
is a silly word
How perfect is the absurd

But you still imagine
The impossible
Because it's something
It's a photo a snapshot
And in essentia
Something that could be

And you fight those
morning sicknesses
Trying to make it happen
By believing in yourself

Because she/he is worth it
And it could mean the world
Henry Brooke Feb 2015
Days pass so fast beween those hills

the ones of suffering delt with skill

A heart not clensed from ill design

softer than silk, fresher than pines.

I write this thousenth letter with a mix

the juice of my oragans, stones and sticks.

So hang around if you feel alone,

and hear the letter leave the stone

and become bone from a bush.

Cast 'tween lands of firery ice

my body acts; I pay the price.

******* of a blueprint, my cardboard genes

still fail to smell a rotting dream.

The clean produce with an iron strength,

a deadly aurora of graveyard stench.

Between the rosebuds, black as soot

lies my ****-bush pushing roots.

Free to amend, from time itself;

Id then be able to cure my self.

Days do pass fast beween these hills

the ones of dementia, of feeling ill

A heart not yet ready to resign,

for there is hope in Valentine.
Work in progress
Henry Brooke Feb 2016
no not like usual
this time it feels insane
feelings, heart and guts
inside safe and same

you are a gem
I threw
Henry Brooke May 2015
Hard is the storm's howl
on the stalk's back,
Yet it stays still forever.

Not thinking, so probably
not Being anything too,
How is it possible for so little
to live this through ?

Cells and acids,
germs and genes,
a natural recepie  
which let's blindthings see;
-reproduction under
the changing trees,
-evolution to suit
new needs,
-harder seeds.

Does it live. Does it know ?
Does it feel when it snows
Will it cry stalk tears
ounce a month at least,
when your sister betrays
that inner beast.

Just a simple stream stalk
and yet I wonder how
it does it.
How it holds the cold,
how it eats away the heat
how it accepts to grow old
and never fall down
to it's feet.

No brain
is the answer you'll say:
Nothing get's into it's way.
What a disapointment
I want


Mosquitos, reindeers,
A bit criptic: it's about nature.
Henry Brooke Mar 2015
Pine tree horizon,
stretched to the point of rupture
over the divine cardinal points around
A round world
which's center is me.

Roads I'll maybe walk,
most of which I won't
but the voyage goes on anyway
as long as I have feet.

Nothing this generation gets:
I chased this out of a bad bet,
and found heaven in a net.
We ate the scenery that day
let it drip onto our ***** sleeves
drying in the cold night
the stars,
God they were bright.
It makes me feel alone here in suburbia,
where the buffalo don't roam,
it's impossible to feel so small and so free,
so careless, in this city,
For there is more to Electricity
there's more to useless junk,
there's boy Scouts going
on a real adventure,
their adventure out of their hell
tha smelly parisian cage of pipes,
tubes, teachers and tests.

They get to breave here in Eden,
they see they're missing out,
they cheer the sun all morning,
till the nightime dries him out.
They get to hug the moon,
to face the secret truths under a piece of cloth,
a brown sky tent from which they
feel like they get it:
Men were apes and
they still are
they cannot live inside a jar
and when we breave that honeyed
air, when the smelly brezze rushes through
our clotted hair
we finally get to peek over the mountain,
and love it with
all we got.
Free write . About Freiendship. Boy - Scouts
Henry Brooke Sep 2015
Sitting in a lonely corridor,
the boy eats a little, waiting for more.
True, the window's shadow moves all right,
but he just can't figure a reason
to let the sun tear through the light.
The spiderwebs are of course there,
as in every sad poem,
Blossoming through an air
which barely kisses the skin
They were his trees of forgiveness
and the trophies he wished to win.

Fitted for beggars,
and thus no place for a king,
the boy now longed for fresher air
as he so needed to sing.
His voice was shy and awkward
but boy did it ring true,
he never though another soul
would live to hear it too.

A dark painting had appeared, some
months back, on a wall he used
to scream silently at,
That was before the boy could sing,
and so he hung the Painting high
he brushed it's ***** corners
till the Painting revealed it's dye.  
There was finally something to do.
Something to stand up for
and exist every single day, late like early
just as long as sunshine made it's way

Every day
having got to know the picture more
the boy had reached a conclusion;
he was to be lonely no more.

It was a she, she was alive
and spoke two languages and a half.
They could talk through the air only
but he never minded that,
He just liked the way she cracked a joke
and how she always answered back.
And so they felt almost every day
the weight of each other's delicious misery
Both paintings to one another,
it never was boring to him

Then came a longer night than usual
one where the cellphone could give no light.
The Painting became dark again
and the cobwebs were back in sight.
The boy stared at the wall:
Thinking Any minute now?
And it all crumbled, as it always did
when the night was lord of the country
and the purple hills were hid.
He stared through the window,
he peered up every hole,
he broke down every dark spot
he deemed responsible.
In all of this dumb fury he only hurt himself,
questioning his duty, it hurl where he ounce felt.
Back to the the cellar boy !
Into the ***** you go.

Then as he hoped the Painting just lit up.
Yet it was no longer hanging
She was standing up.
Metaphor for me and a friend of mine,
I had never heard her speak and in the worst of moment of all she chose to do so.
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
Brother raven
missed his mark
ounce again his
beak meets bark
Angry, hungry
nothing to chew,
he is coming
after you.

Huge dark cross
tearing the sky,
blue behind black
right over your back.
Watch him roar,
hear the thunder pour,
as the raven summons more.
Thumbling in the rain
all this running done in vain.
You hear the famous beak
clap and snap
at your ankles
just as they eat
the beaten track.

Black, Scream, Shriek, Red,
another Indian lies there dead.
The forest summons him back in
with a horrible silence from within.
Blood spills down the feathery chin
presenting its most thankful grin.
Meat, raw meat, blood and gore
will make the raven
want some more.
So hide your wives
your sons, and necks
and prepare yourself
for summer next.
Another free-write.
Henry Brooke Jul 2014
You are not worthy,
you are no man,
my heaven is refusing
to lend you it's hand.

Ten laws we abide,
through deserts and myths,
though three is our number
you can't call your's six.

Traditions of sorrow,
based solely on dust,
such perfect little stories

Who could refuse to trust ?
Henry Brooke Feb 2015
~~ ☠ ~~

A ship sails empty of reason,
captains fear the treasons.
Silent and smooth is how it'll fall
the cabin-boy shall take the bar.

Blood can be found on every street,
both death and life here meet.
Life is a walking misery,
pray god has blessed your destiny.

Outside the people's empty homes,
fathers, sons, left alone.
Big Brother dominates, he commands.
A billion voices in one hand.

The ocean itself is a burden,
your dreams will taunt the sugeons.
Twist well open the sails to Rome
if you flee the country, flee alone.

Between the alleys at this mass
the cross's shadow isn't cast.
Those booklets burn easy, use them well
let vain ideas fry in hell.

Our viscious masters do predict
the fall of  Troika and rise of  Six.
A crew who drains such futile ink
is sure to drown us down the sink.

Save me from the grim Tomorrows
full of hate deceit and sorrows.
Oh, it's not about tyranny,It's human kind.
Justice is never really blind.

Behind the money lies our pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets walk the road,
a thousand stories left untold.

I hope one day it could end ,
just by cutting down his head.
They hunt down anyone not in line,
should we attempt this, is there time ?

Unfathomable ,
his hungry stomach calls for meat;
rotting, green, foul and sweet.
Rank food from the kitchens will be served,
for all the glory
he deserves.
I wrote this in quartrains, because I really like how a decent structure helps it all.
Henry Brooke May 2016
I unwrapped the present
it was a you and a little me
the always chatty
the never sad or boring
duo, I loved you
like no-one
and yet I met you on the Internet.
Now I still do
but I feel you're getting bored
you're getting away
do you know there are others
tell me how you feel
next time I ask.
If I ever do.
All time spend my time on computer games
is a bullet in my foot
I want to talk to you
yet my lip is caught in a hook
even this poem ***** but
it's more I need to talk .
I feel like I'm making you suffer
**** ****
last time I made you mad
I wanted to die
I felt like a maggot.
because it was really my fault.
So now it's unraveling again I feel.
You sent me messages tonight
I only got them later on,
you feel me drag away
I'm am no-one
the never gay
though I seemed to care
I sent the honest goodnight
but it wasn't the crazy
it was the same old
same old
and tomorrow I want to love you
like I feel I do
when my mind is focused
when I believe in you.
Henry Brooke Oct 2018
I'm writing to make you smile

hoping you, reading, understands
Im really eager to give out an open hand and hug you

Hello Poetry Reader its nice to meet you!
Weve never met yet, but give me the shape or form you want, Im your mother and you father, your kin and friend. And Girlfriend or Boyfriend.

I sense unlimited talent in you,
did you know we are all quite like gods ?

Yet we are so small
were tall.

Im a young person from Europe irl,
wishing to make you happy.

Im not religious, this is my prayer for you.

Ive never done this, but it feels so good wishing you the best.

You should try it too.

I wanted to write a poem,
but was in one of those moods where
you have the title out before the body.
A Head-only beast.

At least here it is.

I wish you happyness!

See you around,


wanted to try somthing new.

Henry Brooke Aug 2016
hurt so deep
because it's so true
she caught in two words
what it's like to be two
strangers on a ship
where the cabins don't meet
and the ship is of wood
not glass like the sky
vibrations shaking the tears
out because the cabin
walls are thick
and you cannot
kick a magic trick

oh honesty
how you hurt a man
how you make him
one by slapping back
his crazy hand

oh love
how complicated
how free

oh you
how perfect how true

oh years
how long and stretched

you ate the truth
than hid it in yourself.

you spat it out
like heavy pearl
in my pleading mouth

and I'm here in the kitchen
having read your *******
hoping I had the guts
to make you cry
wanting to kick you
wanting to kiss you

sinking noises.
we need to address this
but not like that
not by hitting the strings
and cutting them with our salt

learning how to play
the satisfying way
without making sad
the one you love
because it's *******
not my fault for these cabin walls
so don't cry
explain with caution
adress the situation

she whispered
"Sinking noises"
and said goodnight.

and I'm wondering if she's right

but in the end
we should help each other
not find ways to
hurt each other
faint hint of truth, it already hurts like childbirth
Henry Brooke Nov 2015
behind the money lies our pain,
into fields fall the rain.
With empty pockets walk the road
a thousand stories left untold.
Henry Brooke Apr 2015
Anyone there
Things are getting messed up
I saw a girl run, escaping
Only to get purposely hit by a truck
Millions stuck in their feces
Feet so deep down
They grow untamable roots
To feed off the **** in the ground
And then there's me
Stupid pretty innocent fragile me
Eighteen years of fragility
A golden boy of the first world
Born to rule and make it his own
Through three more world wars
Spirit caked with a crud of
Guilt and fear
Mind turned and lavished
By the spear of fear
Which is looking dumb
Which is feeling unattractive
Which is being ugly and sick
Scared no one will ever approach
And touch you without gloves
And a stick.
But we'll run this place,
Sure we will beat the new slaves
Into obediance
Sure we will die rich
Sure our wives will give us kids
Sure our masks will hide our fits
Of terror
Oh the horror
The horror
Free write
Henry Brooke Jan 2015
Private Paradise:
Beware !
Barbed off by a generous brook
It smells of decent paychecks
success, children and books.  
It's all perfect really.
The monkey bars and slide
all green and clean
await your tender sons's arms;
waiting for the that time,
where you can give them yours.

Big victorian mansion/ island
spotting the minty green horizon,
A speck of comfort in an
artificial wilderness
near a safe and sterile street.  
Surely you feel one must resist
it's call and live the normal life;
how could you surrender to
such a pleasure which seems
to shine so unaturaly bright ?
you can feel the summer air,
the ******* that seem to never
ever ware off .
The top, so far from mortal life:
an Olympus for mortal men.
Hooks you by the senses:
you can see your family
you can hear them call
you can smell the barbecue
and forget it all.

The sweat rises to pearly drops:

*It's for sale.
Got the inspiration by looking through my old neighbourhood on google street view. The house in question in located 2084 W Valley Rd / Bloomfield Hills / Michigan / USA.
It would feel so good.
Henry Brooke Nov 2014
Location unknown.

The blue pearl has not changed,
its still marvelously the same.
It is small, looks so fragile and true
what a beauty.

Earth surface.
New York.

The absence of imagination,
The end of independent thought.

Cities reek of corruption,
****** and the greatest of sins,
They raise and **** in by millions,
But still, no one seems to win.

Under that new earth,
Into the polluted commuters fog,
Listening peacefully lies a dog.

Men, blow by,
Heads red and swollen
By the vapors of their daily work,
There jaws wide and drooling
open up and hungrily ****.

The Dog has no name,
Not yet.
But from time to time
Out of sleep he wakes,
Tail caught under a shoe,
Mouth whimpering,
Skin spotted with blue,

The dog is a stranger.
He does not know home.
He just lives with the flow of
The city's humors,
Alone, never to be given a bone.

His fur smells of tears
and chewing-gum.
His eye, filled with fear and hope,
Stays closed most of the time,
Never to be crossed by a bloke.

The dog stays silent and still.
The metro's screaming races
Petrifying his will to jump,
The penultimate thrill
Being seduced by noise and nuisance.

He was ever just a bit of
Smelly speck of debris,
To the eyes of the never
to have been free.
But he survives
Along his life by staying alive.

The world's last dog is sick:
Our companion of the first hour's
Resting place is a disgrace.
Time still speeds blindly forward,
the clocks will tick.

Behold everyone a his eye closes:
Man is separated of his brother
without shedding a tear.
Behold the approaching millenniums:
the ones of shame and fear.
Behold the new mankind
the one of dupery and skill
Man may have lost
It's one true friend
But the metro races still
We are killing this earth off..
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
Yet another skeleton,
yet another bag of grime
emptying slowly its bowels
like a kiwi spills out lime.

No famous cross for this one,
the roman men were lazy that day,
dirt served as the mighty altar,
blood, spewed onto the holy hay.

Meters from this,
the savior died
in peace he was tortured
and left.
But our fellow liar here was tied
and couldn't repent from theft.

Two men were lucky
one was saved,
all the witness stood amazed:
As from the limb dripped golden blood
that shone with peiercing rays.

The biblical scene had happened;
the book could be printed out.
But one thing had been forgotten
one thing was never shout.

A man had tried to reach the cross
and ask the savior for help,
but instead his throat was slit and cut
he was not fast enough.

That hot night as the wind was blowing
a banquet was held but with toast,
bread was divided wine kept flowing :
though was cristian meat on roast.

Surely someone was there to look
upon the poor man's soul,
hopefully enough some early god
must have played that kind of role.

Forgotten relics, that man was there,
he did see more than mary herself,
kept away by tears,
blinded by her hair,
she did not see god's heir.

His bones were given to the dogs,
his face to be eaten away by pigs.
He was never honored, is it wrong ?
God’s abandoned kid.
Religion is absurd. Use your head.
Henry Brooke Jul 2015
The princess spits on the king,
Lying and ******* as much as she sings.
Her daft sticky package sliding 'cross  
walls of cold expensive rocks;  
She's that goat's toungue on a saltstick,
she's the rain on Ayer's rock.

White and pretty, tall and lonely
Aryan treasure fills her pleasure form:
one light life, of cruel dominance only
slipping between crack and follies
of ***-bound human bodies.

For now we are slime faces,
hidden chef d'œuvres of the waiting.
Today sewer crud, tomorrow
flagships of tall institutions.
Right now, the cold bitter lonely nights
safe of any example, safe of any fright.
Tomorrow the fables maybe;
plastic posters selling out,
while rabies spead and hunger shouts
from yet smaller mouths.
work in progress | inspired by Auden
Henry Brooke Jun 2014
That day
people from windows fell,
others say, that morning
victims from windows jumped .
On that black day,
just before
all the flags down their polls they fell
cracking ablaze like matches,
pointing at the sky,
came down
raining back onto the city
hot ashes, steel, mixed
all that was left was a mound
of the best of the west's freshest flesh
left to cool down from their heat,
one limb at à time
none could say this was neat
but I was happy to still have mine.

I also remember the other poor
people, the ones that suffered the most .
On the screen you could only see more
of them leaning outside in the cold
their feet dangling in the tempest of flames and smoke,
so high they couldnt even hope
for their bones to survive the journey,
and for their body to hit a post.

After five minutes,
the first one jumped.
(or fell)
His fingers probably burnt
by all of the firery hell .
I gasped as my eyes followed the falling feather,
hoping it was only just
floating and would land
on a strong sheet of leather
Instead they all smashed into the
steets, one after another.

I was young, maybe just five..
To me world was a sandbox
a place to run and to thrive .
Too see people die,
like the ants I sqwashed under
my feet,
made me close my eyes and wonder
what the hell was out to meet
me when I would grow up and
encounter such things,
I couldn't think farther than my block
and didn't want to.
I was happy to breathe and play,
eat, run and cry and hear about
who was Honest Abe, Franklin,
and Edison
to be free to kick and shout
and to lie down and to rest in
the sun
in the grass next to our lake
and the swing under our tree
all that mattered was I was
there and all that cared was
I was **free
It's about how extreme events seemed meaningless to the 4 year old kid I was.
Henry Brooke Aug 2016
I made a castle on my own
with sand that you're not supposed
to touch, and help from Friend.
So bad at shaping regular dirt,
here's what it is :
what you dont expect of me.

And thus
Shaped alone,
somewhere in Somewherelese
where nowone could feel me breathe,
not a living thing can smell my bheat,
grew a thing i could not show
because it was Ridiculous.

The people asked to see my secret place
as soon as they saw my strange blue lips.
I was speaking from (not of)
a place that i wasn't ready to ****
Burning by trying to cut a peek.

: Jealousy, or maybe just curiosity
for that lingering perfume that had
now followed me.

They knew they saw The Cave
where i drew that blue tar from,
but they checked and saw they were wrong.
Because they cant even see her,
because shes not even from this island,
and she's a person, not a name ("The Cave").

Now. We are getting to the point.

Oh the pleasure of creating,
the pleasure of sharing existence,
the pleasure of secretness,
of timidity which time blossoms to
die and make place for something
totally different and unrecognizable
from the first formula.
From honey smell
to Honey,
from text to
Voice and Face.

.love from existing on another shore.
.a shore that was earned
.a shore that exists in reality
.a shore that has *******, a ****** no hair in bad parts
and is pretty and flat and hilly yet nice for all i can think
of for now.
.a shore that i learned to love only by
listening to it's every waves
. as shore that's also a cave,
a brook, a damp nook (to the grave diggers
and maggot fillers)
. a shore not swhore
. a thing i threw a flag on
(planting isnt what only counts)

up till now everything did fine,
up till now everything is doing fine,

it almost never happened,
im hoping this thing lives
that the shores stays happy
that she thinks of me.
Tell me what you think ? :)
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