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 Jan 2013 RIKKI
M Clement
I sipped again
Slipped is similar,
But I'm not falling here,
I'm drinking.

Lusting
I can't get enough
And at the worst times
I'm slipping while sipping
And the cup spills across
My face

Visual destruction
Sink an anchor into my chest
And drop me into the waters
It won't be that hard;
I've been leaving myself open.

I swim to the surface,
Only to cut my own hamstring
So I can sink back into oblivion.

The fish aren't my friends here
 Jan 2013 RIKKI
Bryan Dahl
It feels ingenuine
presumptuous,
I can call myself a
writer, painter, pianist, singer
but when I create something
and want to share it with the world
I have to give it away.
It belongs to You now-
and it's your place to decide
whether or not
you are moved
compelled
offended
or not.

And if you are
oh criticus prudentibus
You've made it- art.
 Jan 2013 RIKKI
Bryan Dahl
Some holding out their hope
Others giving up their dead,
Some believing miracles,
More prefering risk-free will.
Some expecting disappointment
Find regret instead,
Some wait for Luck's return
In broken pieces, still.
Some in line against the wall
Wait with vacant eyes,
Some with kids who won't shut up
Just look down and sigh,
Far too many end their days
The way we first arrive.
Dead hopes and broken miracles,
Our televisions thrive.
 Jan 2013 RIKKI
amt
Untitled
 Jan 2013 RIKKI
amt
And there's only so much someone can do
Before they
Lose

Control

Of
it


all
 Jan 2013 RIKKI
Bryan Dahl
Why?
When we were children
Were we given
A pile of wooden blocks?
To help us count
Add up, take away,
Spell our name and scream it out.
To build and balance
As tall as possible a tower.
And when it fell over
Rebuild and rebalance.
But so many of us just
Threw the blocks at each other
And cried when one hit us
In the eye

So-
When we were given the oceans and sky,
It wasn't long before we had
Ruined more than we had learned-
A continent of gnarled, congealed plastic
Floating in our graying heaven's reflection.
And given the forests,
We build either twelve-room-summer homes or else
So many million disposable chopsticks.
We grew up unlearning and grow old crying while
Our children ask us
Why? Why? Why?
Were you so selfish for so long?
Because
Children, blocks,
don't come with instructions.

— The End —