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not only is beauty supposedly
in the eye of the beholder, it
also reportedly emerges from
an intangible depth within

okay, then, so that means ugliness
comes similarly from within,
or doesn't it, baby?

so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the pit of your stomach, and in
the words that pass the tongue
on the exit from your **** mouth

so then, ugliness must begin and end
in the nerves buried in sleeves, and in
the actions that slip the heart
sneaking past the brain, and vice versa.

on the grab from your dead hands.
on the grab from your dead hands.

not only does it tend to work
unlike the excitable pretend it works,
the implication is, that half of your
worthiness is linked to the mercy

of the mass effect.
as for a thought, a dream,
an intent, an outcome,
a vision, a nightmare,
a hermit knows the good folk
permit attractiveness to good lines.
4 gibs. take it and do some super artsy dook on it!
^ยท^;
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 god.
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
Comfort

— The End —