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Martin Narrod Oct 2016
Almost wrote that I'd died,
But I'm no kinda man to lie, just feel like nothing.

Questions batten down our doors, the weather some women bring, suffering and solitude, nothing changes anything, can't tell anymore- from nothing.

She takes and gives me pain inside, drives us all to go. We're just meant to be alone.

Hurt on all my days, can't sleep, just sit, stare, and stay. I've been born but won nothing. There isn't anyone that can make me feel like something. She made me into no one. I feel worse than nothing. Sick, tired, and frozen. My reach keeps me out, away from evils that I keep to chasing.

Sometimes I can't keep from calling,
Won't you come back to my knee,
Some Tuesday in 2003, when we were something on the edge of nothing.

The skies keep my shadows black
Everything Wyoming has, and I love you
Something more than I've ever had. Don't leave me here, I don't want to be anywhere.

Hey Sarah when you go
Please leave on my evening shows
You can take everything you own
I never expected nothing, now I've got nothing.
Not even me, not even you, I'm no one
Speaking to myself and only talking back half the time. Sitting on my own, wishes worth less now, feet sagging into the dirt. I was never promised hurt, but it's something I've grown to need.

Now I'm stuck inside the mountains with the snow sewn to my legs. At least you let me believe you once when you said I'd be free and out from here. Just now there's nothing, my feet are graves to ears of yours that heard the only songs I've never wrote.

Instead of burying us away, I'll just take a stick and handkerchief and take me to a country where men like me can stay. And now I know the stories the both of us have had, and in the days leading up to we, you started with a punchline which ended as a lie. I'm just 6 ft, 160 pounds of nothing you're waiting on me to die.
But Sarah I have not forgot we promised to stay alive, so long as nothing never came back at us, and we could have something for ourselves to call a life.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
as soon as these blue speckled
socks go, that's it. A new bright black death.A solemn weir on a stark horizon.Give me a reason to wear color. My hueless affidavit
runs me into the Earth, where I sprout up
a pallid keb- brain orf'd, you could drag my etiolated ebon
body through the ovine fold or take me to the theater. When I was just a minor teg, I sheared my mim kip, I fuckinggave it to you outright. In this little
cote my wan mien nigrifying; my calamitous black, quaffed full of congou in demitasse, of souchong & saucers. My atrous wethered body albicantly degenerating in the atrous sun. I'm crusting over with wanness and you, you're fortifying in the cwm where I used to yaff and stray. Your ovivorous hunger,something I never knew, when first you came for my jecoral flesh, just another bot digging through my soft toison. Like Dall's Prometheus being sheared from the flock-you cut me away. In this drab and achromic world, you put the wanness in my flesh, the gid in my heart. Still.
Just these blue socks are left.
Written Sitting against an Oak tree outside of a family friend's farm in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin

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