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 Oct 2019 Lot
She says
you're strange
and I can't quite
put my finger on it
like fog, so I tell her
listen, the smoke
that a poet lives in
is transparent but real
a mystery you can't touch
the wound is too deep
in the soul of the poet
to be excavated like a stone
and polished or broken
like a dark mirror
in the darkest room
on the darkest nights
alone, like the moon.
 Oct 2019 Lot
 Oct 2019 Lot
the things i do
the things i don't
i think i will
i think i won't

my brains, they splatter
u can call me a mad hatter
left or right, it don't matter
ill just keep climbing this endless ladder
 Oct 2019 Lot
 Oct 2019 Lot
I want you
to set your throat ablaze
and yell as loud as you can.

you are
to be angry.

I want you
to sing
as we burn
our                                               problems
to ashes.
As a human, it is instinct to be kind. However, you can get loud. Get mad.
 Oct 2019 Lot
Jo Barber
 Oct 2019 Lot
Jo Barber
Exceedingly underwhelmed,
I found myself in awe
of my own vacant stupidity.
Oh, how we often
fail to grow wiser,
and instead lose
our clear vision
with time,
the way the rain blurs
the window
yet cleans the air.
 Oct 2019 Lot
it’s as if the sun is sleeping
its fearful tears are leaping
the sound of staccato weeping
 Oct 2019 Lot
Paper Cranes
 Oct 2019 Lot
little paper cranes
hang in my mind
if you look close enough
you might even find

a new one appears
every single day
and for some reason
I don't know what to say

maybe just maybe
those little paper cranes
will fold into
little paper planes

to fly over the sea
and across country farms
to find their way
into your arms

because little paper cranes
hang in my mind
for you to one day search for
and for you to one day find
I wrote this for one of my dear friends. I know he'll never see this but it doesn't quite matter to me. The paper crane is supposed to represent my love for him. Not romantic or ****** love,, just a fondness, he really is like a brother to me
 Oct 2019 Lot
Fever Want
 Oct 2019 Lot
It's easy to be most confident
When the action is present
When the purpose is known
But give yourself nothing but time to see
Nothing but quite days of drifting snow
And there in the waiting you will find
That the precious thing which you wanted most
Was just another line of string
In a wrapped up life slowly being unrolled
Whatever we want, is most often a human want.
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