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There's a pebble in my shoe,
yet on I run.
I'm a *******,
but not much of one.
No, seriously
it's ether this or Oatmeal you guys.
These options are terrible.
I wanna re-roll my character.
Martin Narrod Feb 2017
I will never remove you from my brain's synapses altogether,
Particles, dust-speckles, piceous ashes of you, broken half of
Where the crowning splinter lies.
Heffalump-bray, Big-bird whistle, and feverish laughter
Sink from your tiny lips.
It's worse than preschool television programming.

Maybe you consider yourself a ***.
Mouth-rush, crooked sickle-spine, of the cranes' dead oath,
Or like some hindered devil at the reeds on your tongue.
Seven years I have worked with the crutch, and worried

Like arc-lightning, thickly-paned, frail as a frostbow,
Palely lit uvula at the glowing alter.
I am none closer now. To amend the acres where my feet wallow blindly.
The shivering, baroque, tumuli where my splinters clear my steel-hide.

An orchestral bow of crimson blight,
I had dredged supinely through the pithy Latin vowels.
Like the month of a flower, hitched to the acanthine wings of a moth.
The moon clung to your shivers and sickness.

No longer can I keep my hair to frosty old anarchies.
Nights, heaped on the bowels of a smoky weir.
The blank stones that struck my hands of warning.
Beside the clogged, rancorous doom I had reflected
Talarah Shepherd May 2014
Life tends to kick you quickest when you're down
Like the little pithy scratch of jealousy
On your neck as you see the signs
When your girlfriend's stale eyes
Begin to wander
Begin to wander too specifically
For your personal

— The End —