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Aug 2011
there is
there is
no literature in this

the core of my barrenss stiched between the somber of your lips

there is not enough anarchy in the mass to hold this
to speak of the almond eyes that I innocently miss
blue and full, the shadowy veins on your lips
the hands I once


There is no literature in this

the pretty pictures
I dismiss
I delay my thoughts

the sound of passions gunshots
the inky fluid corpse that my mind blots

In the late night I take my shots
I lay there on my wooden dusty floor
mirroring the internal rot

my eyes are sore

and I implore


to behave like you did that one day we were
saying goodbye at your door

just kiss me

Ill keep the hinges tight this time
this is the last time
I swore

to myself
my words they are cracking the wood on your shelf
to my poetry I scream for help
to my lamp I simmer in tears
in my pillow I drown your fears
and increase mine

your senses

I feel them
in my

your jawline
all that was once you
and all that was once mine

so small and feline
you to my audience I will ******
before define

my tongue has ran out of words for you

my thoughts are too lonely to empansipate
my hands too empty to castrate
my mind too blane to hate
my eyes

I hold the heaviness of this weight
in my perched fingers
crawling to the steps of anything
but home

can I remind myself
of the sullen moments
covered in tatterted cloth filled with open wounds
leaking the blood of all your fluttering objetcs
taunting me
singing to me

there is
there is
no literature in this
the capitol punishment
of my frail little
midnight prague
Written by
midnight prague
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