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Run
I want to run
I'm sick and tired
Of everyone

Stay
I'll probably stay
I don't have the
Heart, strength, power

Escape
I can't escape
My head is clouded
With darkness

Go
I want to go
I don't know how
But I'll figure it out
 Apr 2017 Jaclyn Harlamert
Anthem
When it comes to immigration, everyone’s so focused on the crisis in the Middle East that they forget about the true threat, our sister to the North and The Great Canadian Exodus. That’s right, I’m talking about the Geese. They come over the border, whenever they feel like it; we don’t even know who they are. They’re rapists and murderers and some, I imagine, are good birds. But we don’t know who they are. What we do know is they ****, a lot, in public, everywhere. So much. So so much. They insist on holding up traffic, needlessly, whenever and wherever they like it. I’ve seen one these things, and I’m not kidding you folks, run a grown man down. This hard-working, patriotic American (who I’m sure bled red, white and blue), was beaten and berated by something that isn’t even supposed to be here in the first place. It was horrible, absolutely horrible. And the worst part is, it could have been avoided. That’s why I’m calling for a ban, on all regional immigration and migratory practices, for the foreseeable future. We need to get a grip on this. We need to get ourselves back on track. We need to, simply put, Make America(n Lawns) Great again. Thank you, everybody. Thanks for coming out. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, goodnight!

http://imgur.com/hFb4bBN
I sent you a message today
It reached an infinite abyss
Or maybe someone else
Or possibly no place at all

But those words were meant for you
And even though you're gone I can't accept the truth;
That you'll never respond.
I miss you every day.
Life, the most widespread joke without a punchline.
We throw ourselves into the playground for amusement, some way to pass the endless stream of time.
We have the power to do many terrible great things but not the will to perform.
We drown in our misunderstanding and want for companionship.
No one wants to meet what comes next alone.
We surround ourselves with the others but are they real or just figments of the great simulation.
Which ones are REAL?
What does it all mean?
We ask repeatedly and distract from the oncoming dread by soaking our brains in pleasure and petty tasks.
When there is none to be found we suffer in nothingness.
Crave the meaning of it all, but fear the truth.
Map the endless universe for an answer but only so far is the reach of a crafted lens.
Sometimes we think we see the solution in the sparkle of another's eyes but love.
Love is but another falsity.
Eventually everything fades, even one's biological function for passion.
Whatever we are, we were meant to seek the answer.
If there is none, we suffer internally eternally.
This is Hell!
What comes next is endless slumber, trapped in the pod of another plain of existence.
Until we dare to amuse ourselves again.
Memory wiped.
The experiment.
The thrill.
The punchline revealed!
A small written expression of my feelings in the search for the meaning of life.
I am upset
Always depressed
Never liking myself in a dress
Obsessed with death
unless my flesh has been dressed red
Almost rhymed.
Do not let them
press your pain
against the fence,
scraping your
thin skin veins
against its sharp
metal parts.

Do not let them
mutilate your heart.
It is not their part
to play an
integral roll
in how you grow.
You will rise
despite them.

Do not let go;
Know that though
you are only
passing familiars
that tread
the creeping causeways
driving in, around,
and eventually
all the way out
of this living town,
I love you all.
A dancer was arrested one night
For stringing leopard skins across
The windowsills of houses whose
Inhabitants were all court officials

The bones however were left for the judge, that next morning displayed in the shape of his wife, leaning over the kitchen sink cleaning dishes for the breakfast  he never again would let her prepare, the meat was left for the jury to taste and decide if it was all worth it.

© Matthew Goff
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