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Before I start, I want to give thanks to Mc6lm and Pinal for their friendship and support on and off of this platform. You have shown unwavering support for me since the beginning and have continued to do so up to now. For this, you have my sincere gratitude. As to everyone else, thank you so much for your support, but I am leaving this site. The reasons are various but the primary reason rests in the sites seemingly declining membership and maintenance. I give this site another year before total collapse due to lack of maintenance. I love all of you, but I refuse to contribute words or money to a site whose owner could not give less of a **** about the people who want nothing but to see it flourish. When I started here in March 2018, I had one goal in mind: become a better writer. I have accomplished this goal to an extent, but I am not the best I know I can be just yet. I do not leave you now because the well has run dry, I leave because the factory has closed, yet my hands still desire work. If you would like to keep up with me, I have a few different media where I post regularly: Allpoetry at Mr. Landstrom, Tumblr at darrell-landstrom, Mirakee at Darrelllandstrom, and Instagram at dillonlynch_99.
Since joining this place, I've dropped out of high school, received my GED, wrote poems I never thought I could write, made many friends, lost many of them, and attained a following I couldn't have imagined even in my most vain daydreams. And now, I may even be starting university later this year to pursue my dream of teaching. When I say that I mean this with the whole of my being, I mean it: It would not have been possible without any of you. You have all helped to repair my broken self-esteem with your support and encouraged me to pursue my dreams to their fullest extent. Thank you, God bless, and goodbye.
—Dillon Lynch
I love you all!
Dec 2019 · 793
Written in Man and Leaf
The sovereign spirit unfolds the tree and bone
Into young vapors and circles moving swiftly by,
And erects the artisan who erects the stone:
Echoing on that ever transient and ephemeral cry
Which drapes on the cold night and tall bough,
A moon, white with laughing and weeping shores,
And, with a fertile cup speaking of then and now,
Binds in sleep every sister moon as it gently pours.
—And the sea throbs silent into that far stream;
The stars call wisdom from the dark that weaves,
And the poet composes it, golden upon his ream,
To rise about the mountainside—written in leaves.
And the sun's many pikes fall on the waking snow,
To warm the blood into the architectures heart:
The blood which bids every sky and skin to know
Of this fragile eternity who dreams itself apart.
Oh, and the hemlock seeks the sage and the just,
And the black day's pyre laps patiently at kings,
Who, as the sphinx riddles of evening star and dust,
Unfurls as a thicket of time in the void of its wings.
You may want to turn your phone to read this on mobile. This will be my last post of this year; the amount of support for my poetry and me on the last post and this year in general has helped me in innumerable ways. It has taken my life which seemed bound for failure and helped me make the decision I have made quite recently: I have chosen to live. Earlier this year, I contemplated taking my own life. I won't go into detail about it, but just know that I have an inexpressible gratitude to each and every one of you. I am here, I shall remain here in the next year, and hopefully the one after. Thank you all!

—With overwhelming love,
Nov 2019 · 943
At the soft orchid's early breath,
I trailed the yawn of this world entire
To the stone seat of soundless death,
And swelled on wisdom and formless fire.
One of the shortest I'll ever post. I might come back to it at a later date. Due to an unexpected health issue, my writing time has been cut effectively in half. I'm still aiming at two poems a month (this month has been productive as I now have two finished) but don't be surprised if I'm inactive for a little while. Thank you, everyone, for your support.
Oct 2019 · 1.5k
A Hymn to Heraclitus
The eternal sets roots within stirring sands,
Fraying the stars from their dark nurse;
All lay conjured by these penning hands,
Setting forth their sacred motions in verse.
How fates glimmering rains rushed over us,
And we endured of marble and heavy stone.
Yet vain as the mason errs, may he make thus:
A mark of the day our kin visage is shown.

Oh, found in the throb of every antique wing,
The glow and hollow in the bone and air—
Inscribed is the known day coming to sing
Of when we'd falter upon the bleeding snare,
After seeing these crests chide with fiery word,
And the firmaments rolling thorns play in ruling;
For that which dwelled, dwells still, and heard,
Of the fire and flux and time most grueling.

The source idles as strange in its weeping,
Yet the mouth, in ending, holds it in inborn wit,
And winds man entire, subtle and creeping,
To where his life, illumined, and faded, shall sit.
By this, be us ash, or the lit dew of the spheres,
The bird shall ever story from its great limb:
The two utter into one over the many years,
And from this, the Logos composes its hymn.
Hello! Those other poems I'm working on are taking up a good bit of my time and energy— so, I hope you all enjoy this one while those are being toiled away on. Thanks to everyone who has followed me on my other social platforms. Also, I can't respond to whoever follows or messages me on Tumblr at the moment. Something about their site isn't working properly.
Sep 2019 · 1.8k
The Hymnist
Within and beside me travels totality-
Thus, I seek to find in the glinting dew,
Bound by the Lord's writ and causality,
A duality of essence to reflect the true:
Speak, you hymns of life—attest of death!
Trickle from the laborer's stony head;
Lace the droplets of the hunter's breath-
Thieve alike of the wakeful and dead;
Drive the marble into a drought of kings,
And panic to sand every skin and thread.
Push us wide from the knives cold lip,
As the revealing held in its ageless frame
Harkens to its framer—a muse lent grip-
In-kind do you utter, in all ilk and name;
Through nail, cobweb, and ocean clear:
Only lesser gleanings of your vast claim-
So nag the heels of rooted oak and man-
Pilfer the branch, the white bird, the wine;
The book, the body, and the dark they span.
Hail from beyond the olive and the vine,
To us, who lay grim in your tribulation,
And to our posterity, set in eternal brine:
Heave high this winter—low this summer,
Heave high this night—low this ample day!
Hear these ring on from the lone drummer,
Your holy summons, all you lambs of clay!
Sorry that I've been a bit inactive on here, this is all I've got for now.
From time alone is man defined
 As the diffused flash of a holy duality.
Brother to ripe olives, a likeness of reality,
 Lucid in face, yet mortally blind.

Ebbing spirit and cohorts around:
 Pluck these eyes with a degree of care.
For feeling your hands lays one bare—
 To know its touch is to know the mound.

Our embrace is a wicked aspect of fate—
 An animal breeze clouded as amity.
Some recoil at their light, at their brevity,
 Yet these ponderers fall ever straight.

What star beams to wilting lovers
 Who adjoin for this brief act and jest?
A way-lighting keeper for ease and rest,
 Or a gaze behind for what love uncovers?

What limb hangs and endures to bind
 This dream and moon-this eve entire?
When wind lofts slumbers' soothing lyre,
 Number it among the illusions of the mind.

What cruel earth cracks with greeting
 While swallowing our infant yearning?
O coming mass, O firmament ever-churning,
 Bound and seize us! We are fleeting!-

Fleeting into the dance of earthly gloom,
 Winding about—pining behind the flesh-
Reifying the world in gesture and thresh.
 What sum am I, branch—again in bloom?
"Continual awareness of all time and space, of the size and lifespan of the things around us. A grape seed in infinite space. A half twist of a corkscrew against eternity."
—Marcus Aurelius
Sorry that it took over a week for me to upload this after my last post; I've been sick lately and haven't found the energy for much of anything. Anyway, hope you all enjoy this one- it might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile.
Aug 2019 · 1.7k
Cherub Lament
Hastening through a sunlit rift,
Onwards goes the moment-made drift!-
Run humming through this temporal cloak,
Hung amid sleepy trees, O wind of being!-
Take up these men like wisps of smoke,
Lift them past vernal reflections, fleeing.

When loft in morning or loft at sea,
Split them in lie and bough at every degree.
Bid them lay as mirrored days in wilt-
Perceiving their vastness as it grows:
Cast in all visages, mused in the astral quilt,
—Unfolded in antiquity and ill repose.

A weary infinite set in wander,
Yielding devotion to those who ponder.
Blessed nausea, turn to those who brood,
For they count the soul's delusive reach.
Oh, how that eager soul and still hand feud,
Even when beholding the swelling breach!-

In cherub lament, what must you do?-
Tread, and mind death—for it minds you.
If all is comedy, may dawn be amusing.
If all is tragedy, may dusk be a reprieve.
Though you sift each at your choosing,
Evoke this reflection: —laugh or grieve!
I told myself that I'd be back when I'd written at least three poems. Over the course of the last month, I wrote only two- this and another one which shall be uploaded in the coming days. A word about the book: I decided to part with my original publisher for a multitude of reasons. The plan for the book is still on. I simply need to find a new publisher or learn to self publish.
Jun 2019 · 1.3k
He Who Suffuses Fire
Out of sunlit wisps and aspects light,
Out of sated eagles and mountain breeze,
Did they, in effulgence, unfold into sight
With delphic skins and raving unease—
O deity who splices that divine form,
And casts sepulchers from man's blood-
Even amid able words or whet irons, warm,
Does will hallow what arises from mud?-
—Fire! See those lingering binds instilled
In the sinewed and sinewless ones-
Enrich them! Perceive each as you build!-
Accord upon your many wandering sons:
A sum of creases, a new shade to be bore,
And youthful beat in the stain of your being.
There is your lamb! There is flesh in fore!-
Toiled and golden- fructified by your seeing!
—Fire! How stifling is your deferring!-
Savored in the sufferer's depth and doing,
And in the convalescent's long stirring!
O stars, this life- for flux or supine viewing?
On me the tempest falls. It does not make me tremble. O holy Mother Earth, O air and sun, behold me. I am wronged.
- Aeschylus, Prometheus Bound

This is it for now- I'm going back on hiatus for a while. I hope you all enjoy this piece. It might look better if you turn your phone if you're on mobile. Also wanted to say thank you for the sheer amount of support on "O Friends of Twilight" and my poetry in general. I won't be gone for too long.

I love you all,
Jun 2019 · 1.2k
The Owl of Minerva
O Owl! —Why leash our roads to this stone:
Where foretime faiths consort in change?
Where intent is recited undue and strange?
Where the slaves' golden frills are grown?
To know the dead in pale verses and rivers full-
To propel, wrought and winding with youth,
To wholly adopt the sumless womb of truth,
And to dwell in the foothills of revelation and lull!
Our enduring composition: what we fathom in going;
A defacement—an evolution in scene and air.
Blessed be these traveled roads we wear,
For there we unearth our eager fruits growing.
Though clouded, may we render time standing,
Even when struck in the mute, fleeing traces-
O winged wisdom—forth from lifted faces,
Antiquity emits its light, cold and demanding!
I have just finished this and one other poem that I started around the time of finishing "O Friends of Twilight!". The other will be released soon; I hope you all enjoy.
Jun 2019 · 2.7k
O Friends of Twilight!
Though I arc and swell and bloom,
And move replete with daylight gifted-
A new shadow, melancholy in its fume,
Strongly pervades on this day now shifted.
Enkindle and sing, O dawn-awoken bones!-
Guide me through the salt and midnight!-
As above, a tide surfeit with unknowns
Is broken upon this reflecting man's sight!
Why covet my blisses, O familiar void?
And why those lazy eyes of envy, time?
Your long sleep and anemia I once enjoyed,
But here stands life, rushing and sublime!-
And here stands the martyr and saint:
Affirmed and illuminated in cause!-
For all other passions and peaks have a taint
Where deep nothingness winds and draws.
And why pray and descend, great nullity?
Why whisper and comfort and be at all?
The weak may come for your amity,
But death perfumes in your beckon and call!
When day betrays with days untold-
How the entropic rib impels us to be dust!
For day fools every pestled grain and ill old,
Curving and embracing them on a gust—
There! I have unmasked you, turning suns!
Your enthralling gaze, your simple hold!
Here are your cowardly, apathetic ones,
In your hands does their low course unfold!
They fear when one is most visible-
Why fear afternoon, O friends of twilight?
Do you not find this loaded sky risible?
Why love only as ghosts and strange night?
Save longing and fully comprehend:
Life is the tug of the eternal and the swift-
You must move, you must love and bend-
And, like the others, you must be adrift!
He who is high and most abounding,
Has the least of false shades cast on him:
The shade of the feeble, idle yet sounding-
Do not deny yourself- you've only grown dim-
Night! Come night and friends dotted within!
I have taught well—burn amongst me here!
Bound muscle and growth and sun akin!
Here is nature—warm and without veneer!
This took a little over a month to make. I hope you all enjoy reading it. This will most likely be my last post for a bit as this took a lot of creative energy- I won't be gone too long. Special thank you to Mc6lm for early input.

I love you all
- Darrell
May 2019 · 966
Silenus Abstains
O law of being and vague dreams,
You hide among yellowed, weary eyes.
But here, your hymnals and beams
Are shown malevolent in their guise.

Once you were a dark and moving gale,
Ushering lost wisps into our sight.
The end you augured but did not unveil,
Was not an end- but only a fellow night.

How you swore love and mighty aims,
Empire and failure and turns of all kinds-
All akin and rent merely in names!
Oh, how life may serve as its own binds!

Your grand turning of skin compels us so-
Beads of purity conquered by yearning.
This endless motion, a given for woe;
Our years are swept away in discerning.
"For he lives with the least worry who knows not his misfortune; but for humans, the best for them is not to be born at all, not to partake of nature's excellence; not to be is best, for both sexes. This should be our choice, if choice we have; and the next to this is, when we are born, to die as soon as we can." -The Wisdom Of Silenus
I don't particularly agree with this statement anymore but it did inspire this.
May 2019 · 980
Look there, Lost and Bountiful Sea!-
For these bodies ache with calls,
And these currents decide who to be.

Sifting and secret amid the waving sands,
It constructs my winds with a cruel eye-
Oh, my voice- so thin in its hands!

I, a glance lost in the wideness of death
And blessed by this ray filled cloud,
Was born upon a long, passing breath-

And, dancing wildly amid these trees,
Spoke an old truth upon a fleeting past:
We live so statues may be at ease.
I'm not fully back to the site but I felt like posting this. I wanted to do more with it and I might at a later date but this is it for now.
Also, I have a Tumblr up and going (it's under the same name that I have on here). Feel free to check that out if you want.
Apr 2019 · 488
The Flagellant
The divine, euphonious love
  Of my lord,
Now victorious with my wails,
Filtered through boughs above
And joined ecstasy into my pangs.
I tilt my head upward to the
  pale mounds
And there my heaven mutely hangs,
Begotten through my
  unsinewed abysses.

Still, I cannot reach you-

Those cosmic eyes keep me here,
Veiled in the flesh of this
  boundless night.
Oh ripe fruit above shallow water,
  I test no fear-
Forcing my stone up this endless hill.
Into my thousand caverns,
  I, again, disappear.
"Whoever has at some point built a "new heaven" has found the power to do so only in his own hell." -Friedrich Nietzsche
Mar 2019 · 1.4k
To The Worms
To the binding serpents of the dead:
Wither me to my material base,
As nature bids that you be fed;
Claiming my languid spirit and place.
Here, this ragged pile of bone
Which you have clasped so tight,
Will not cower or weakly moan
At your writhing embraces tonight.
For I return to this earthy keep,
And I know you'll boat me fair
To where man and deity sleep—
Within God, perfuming and bare.
Within this womb—this swollen mound,
Conquer me once more, worm!
And ring your bell for another bound—
It is only my life which you affirm!
I am traveling at the moment and will be back in my hometown sometime this weekend. I have something at home ready for everyone when I get back:)
Mar 2019 · 436
In Transit
This river, flowing and alive,
Carries all that has been seen,
So we may see it once more
Within common eyes
On the other side of infinity.

Should I see you tangled
Between the strands of reality
On our short journey
From one to the next,
Then it means, surely, that

Aristophanes was correct-
These familiar, windswept droplets,
Entwined our fragile limbs anew
And bound my fate to your love-

Is any part of us still unseen and
We shall have time to search…
Feb 2019 · 352
As your eyes seal away
The bright sphere, suspended, waiting-
And your back faces
The repossessing earth-
Your mouth, cavernous, prone to lie,
Says: This is not mine anymore.

And the firmament is
Transmuted into blackness before
And you're whispered above
The many shrieking wires,
And you're engulfed below
The sunlit, compact waves,
Without ever knowing or caring to know-
You could never stake claim to it.

Dream, all you kind ones, for it is eternal.
Dream, all you dying ones,
For you will never know the difference.
Come down, all you who are forestalling,
For it is time to give…
Feb 2019 · 416
A Song From Somewhere
The waters twisted, fell and suddenly conjoined
While the sun made the carrion into an arid shell.
Blistered feet are wrapped tightly, caked in pestled earth.
The light falls elsewhere- a rippling supper bell.

Kicking up clouds of dust goes tattered silk robes,
And away goes the ancient, crusted skin-
Wading and flaunting about, unsullied and naked-
Small forms devoid of our animate sin.

Exiles, threshed by being, with a steadfast obstinacy
Found in anguish, ennui, and museful song.
How they crooned of sacred hills, rolling into nothing,
And how the orange sun conversed long.

And they sang joyously of the endless cadavers,
Beneath those rolling hills and foaming, affixing waters-
And how the decaying scents in all prospects
Would grow and fester in our sons and daughters.

The song laid dormant in a starry sky-
Conjured in rousing bodies and secret gestures-

How their song rambled far and sowed itself in piercing quiet,
And scathed many ages with well-hidden despair.
And how their verses guide me toward an abyssal sleep
Delivered through the indifferent gateway of my chair.

-A suspended bell chimes on in unknowing.
Since the beginning of this year, my mental health has been on a bit of a downward *****. I'm not trying to worry any of you, but writing, as well as many other things,  has become increasingly difficult due to a severe lack of motivation. I'm trying my best though- it's all I can do.
Jan 2019 · 786
Bits and Pieces #9
1.  Minds are heightened or subdued through the same phenomenon: the destruction of truths and falsities.
2. Disappointment is reality deviating from your illusions.
3. It is always hardest to convince or console oneself. One who does neither will be forever lost.
4. Those who surrender themselves to a lifestyle of failure loathe those who do the same.
5. Denial of the improbable is the denial of the future and the acceptance of an absurd existence where all is random. Existence is a confusion structured of probability and constants.
6. Life relies on our ability to form compromises with our illusions.
Not sure what to call these... Maxims? Aphorisms? Observations?
I've been in a bit of a creative slump recently so it's kind of hard to write... or do anything for that matter.
Jan 2019 · 682
L’appel Du Vide
Wreathed in the cold air of knowing
And the false promises of stars,
We swallow its ancient, blinding wines
As we cascade through the universe
To where our inebriated forms are sifted
Through the veil of faces called time.

Oh, on the peaks of infinite possibility,
God calls us to fulfill our obligation.
To this end, we disperse ourselves
Through his various forms of exit.
Scattered, fluttering, ever alone—
Glimmerous flakes of was and is,
Lead by strings into tomorrow.

One more drunk face in the mirror,
One more clouded face in the womb-
How they flutter in its call!
How they flutter in its call!
Dec 2018 · 656
A Song For A Dead Friend
When the faces start to look the same,
And if the faces know your name,
Don't pay it any mind-
It's just time tempting you
To always look behind.

And should you find yourself on the stool,
Becoming one with the air-
Your neck says you've been made a fool
But the voices will all say, where?

And you'll say:
Was I not everyone
Before the dark had birthed the sun?

Yes, you were, little one.
But whose eyes do you see through now?

And from the marble towers come
The sound from the ***** drum
And the old man who we become
Saying: bring your guitar and strum.

Who hung you from a liars tree?
Who made your ocean into a sea?
Who gave you chains and called you free?
And the child inside says:
Why do you make songs for me?

And the old man says:
Why don't you make a song for me?
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me-
Come and make a song for me…
THIS is my last post of the year... Maybe...
Either way, I have a bunch of stuff in the works that probably won't be finished until next year.
I hope everyone has a nice holiday and new year.

I love you all
-Darrell or Dillon.
Dec 2018 · 593
The Parisian Lamppost
I do not see this night- I, instead, feel it.
Where the black and white meet in despair,
And the streets are beautiful for those
Who have disappeared from them.
Where arms welcome the living
And a warm tongue greets the returning stranger-
The night gains life,
For the rope has given it my air-
A thousand dreams await.
"Do not wait up for me this evening, for the night will be black and white."
Suicide letter of Gérard de Nerval.
I'm in the process of writing six short stories, however, I probably won't be finished on any of them until early next year. Till then, this may be my final post until the new year.
Nov 2018 · 1.2k
Bits and Pieces #6
I write about the world in an attempt to remove myself from it. Not in a way that would bid my nonexistence- but to be an observer to that existence or nonexistence. I write to observe my own absurdity.
I promise to have an ACTUAL poem out soon but I wanted to ask: would any of you be interested in me writing more short stories? I haven't published one since "Would It Be Honest?" and, while more difficult, are very pleasing to create. I know that it's ultimately up to me on what I publish and write, but I didn't want to just dump loads of text on you all out of the blue.
Nov 2018 · 1.1k
Bits and Pieces #5
We are more afraid of utilizing our freedom than we are of losing it.
I was going through some old papers and found this.
Nov 2018 · 621
For the Hideous
I know you sauntered into that room,
Trailing just behind
In the sweat of your lover.
I saw the light shatter on your body,
And convalesce in the dark curves
Of your being.

I know that you were naked,
I know how long the nights are-
I know where hands fall
With no one to guide them.
I know your hands are white,
That your hold speaks with deceit.
Since we love ourselves through each other,
All embraces and gestures are empty-

I know you strum the lashes of the evening,
Hoping for some gentle lines,
So you can feel the youth beneath you,
And not be confused by your ugliness.
I'm sorry for the lack of posting.
I've been busy and I haven't written anything lately that I feel is good.
I've been lacking in the inspiration and creativity department.
Nov 2018 · 218
A Series Of Cups
****** me with your sentience;
Force your grief onto me-
Superimpose your emotions
Onto my porcelain skin.

I inhabit the shelf above your bed
With my identical kin.
Your aches rest above us
In some place I cannot comprehend.

The shades of this room bind us,
And the spaces weave a common thread.
But I am not like you-
I am cold by nature,
You are cold by choice.

You frequently fill me
With liquors of habit.
I cannot impede you;
Leave me out of this-
I'm back.
Oct 2018 · 1.6k
Bits and Pieces #4
After drawing my interpretation of oxygen, a man stopped beside me and said: "I am insulted by the curving nature of infinity; my mother lives in my bones- I have become her womb.
I am the sepulcher of my ancestors."
He then plucked his eyes and walked backward into the ocean.
I wanted this here before I took my little hiatus.
I wrote this very late one night and haven't found the appropriate place for it.
Oct 2018 · 260
Summer Tongues
The summer tongues swallowed ice
While sleeping below the overpass in
Murmured coverings of pleasure.

Blackness is disemboweled
By the cavernous bones of
The street lights, adorning
Prying thoughts with illuminated
Swirling nightfalls
Attract the sphere's curling
Paint onto awaiting surfaces
Amid ******* escapades.

Summer tongues scrape
The remnants of velvet adolescence
From the perpetual fragrance
Of antiquated streets-
A concupiscent haze swept
Through the doleful hair
Lining the scalp of rain
Saturated recollections.

Yellowed hotels received
A swaying eastern morning.
My skull tasted frost through
An impartial syringe in my arm.
I'll be gone for a little while.

I love you all
- Darrell or Dillon or Whatever you want to call me
Oct 2018 · 202
Bits And Pieces #3
And, there, in the great dunes of the sky; in the hollow and eternal clock of gold; in the anxiety melding itself into the impenetrable and aching cage of nights which defy the poets and encompasses all in solitude; in a somber face with plastic breath, the eyes of alcohol and choking replies...
Written on a sticky note that I'd put into a book.
I have a long "stream of consciousness" piece coming in the next few days as I just keep adding to it every time I sit down to write.
Oct 2018 · 224
Bits and Pieces #2
She moved like a desperate tide, trying to find a shore that would accept her.
I admired the way her fingers found the horizon through an open window and the light fell upon our cheeks- we drifted in the space between childhood and the tightness of our stomachs.
Lines from a short story I never finished.
Oct 2018 · 575
The Womb Is For The Hopeful
Broken strings lay bare
The incommunicable suffering
Of the stoic and derelict musician.

Unwritten words lay bare
The clean, white paper of misery
Inflicting the grieving poet.

Both yearn for jovial memories,
Both yearn for anchored prosperity,
Both are denied by the fallibility of life.

In murky, smoke entwined bars,
In the blind confession of night,
Both can be found, traveling-
As only the aloof aspirant can-

I enjoy being more experimental with my writing, however, I've been moving away from it in turn for more conventional styles and topics.
Maybe a mix of more conventional material and experimental material?
How out there is too out there?
Oct 2018 · 1.1k
Bits and Pieces #1
You like wine, don't you?
I don't know-
I haven't made up that part of you yet.
I have hundreds of fragments and random scribblings lying around so I think I'll start throwing those on here.
In Anaheim,
Your blood became mine,
White noise, city skin grinder,
Hands to face, deep in wounded time.

In Anaheim,
The high side of leaves,
Groaning mouths, playing fingers,
Woman in poverty, the road lingers,
Our bones break so fast,
Our clothes rip- our golden lives.

In Anaheim,
I stood in the tall wind of the day,
Proving my love of life,
To those who'll listen,
A fragile shoulder comes anyway.
We die because of tomorrow,
Life is steeped in today.

In Anaheim,
I'm suspended in the grasp-
Of the afternoon sun,
And my chair puts down roots.
My window is open-
Another song but this one is from a while ago.
Hope you like it.
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