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In the land of a child
The angels hide
Hide from the evil
Hide from the demons.

In the land of a child
The beauty arise
No fear No labels
No sin No lies.

In the land of a child
The garden of lullabies
Mesmerized eyes
The mystical heart
The strangest art.

In the land of evil
The innocence's lost
Caged by temptations
Devoted for lust.

In the land of evil
Looking for fame
Wanting the gain
Searching for love
The problems won't be solved.

In the land of evil
Addicted to gold
Stuck on the dope
Smoke
           Chase
                    Shoot
                             Sniff
Bow to your Lord.

In the land of a Child and Evil i was trapped in between.

An innocent soul gone with the wind.

Falling with the rain
But the memories remain...


Words Of Harfouchism.
Weird but hope you'll love it.
Beauty is all earth,
History, Her-story naught,
  .  .  .  Else sheer vanity.
 Sep 2014 Ishshita Chanda
Curtis
I am blinded by poetry
I know you feel its energy
In a void consumed in flames.
You are all I can breathe.
Why does it feel so close to the edge, loving him?
He forgot how to help himself.

He forgot how to love,accept,and respect himself.

He now loves feeling his pain,
and wishing things were still the same.
Exchanging brains,
for drugs with names,
that will land him under the ground,
or inside of a cage.

It’s a crime to wait,
for life to take,
the righter path,
with a mind that hates.
At night he’ll pace
his mind will race,
yet sit in place,
designed to waste.

Why does he do it?
So self destructive.
He claims he isn’t an addict,
but isn’t above it.
The future is bleek,
so no need to recover.
A bleeding heart bruises,
and is misleading in color.
At the moment before,
the moment he snaps,
and right before he’d lose it,
*his music *oozes from the loosest of nooses.
Do something positive after reading this one.
There are bare-breasted women
lounging in the unmade bed
of my mind.
They teach me chords on the piano,
and how to stay grateful
in the face of time;
how it lingers between seconds,
but years go by unannounced.

We don't make love. We ****,
taking back each wasted Sunday
spent talking to G-d,
or waiting for political truth.
They run their fingers over my back,
send me to a sleep
of dried sweat and loving violence.
They send me sunflower seeds and ****

in the post,
so I can bloom by the open window
and feel warmth through winter.
There are powerful women
laying down the law by the clock tower.
They stand up for Syria
and challenge the authority
I had conjured in my mind.
c
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