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"exemplifying" poems
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word The world is ruled by darkness. What appears as harmless is theater, what pretends neutral is already bent. The macrocosm corrodes; and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams.. even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth. A poetry site, born as refuge for broken voices, becomes another stage of control. Here too the phrase resounds:   neutralize the threat. But neutralization is not annihilation. It is paralysis. It is psy-ops. It is the removal of anxiety.. not a side-effect, but the aim itself. Darkness builds its stage for this alone: that the  "angel of light" may drown his own reckoning beneath a world of deception-built self comfort, so he need never feel the truth he already knows. Comfort is his curtain, numbness his crown..   *the removal of his own anxiety;       his game.* This is why the world is his theater-- *Darkness does not destroy at first.. it sedates, comforts, smothers.* Hence.. The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,     ..for now. Fade back into the moment-- The young poet arrives, bringing her unspoken pain, her hope for words to heal. Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds. Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation. Not to strengthen her voice, but to redirect it. She is seduced into  belonging, and her trauma becomes currency. Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust-- a sacrifice prepared  for false altars. The angel of light  has done his work: offering inclusion without transformation, belonging without responsibility, “light” without source. The poet is neutralized. Her searching silenced, her voice absorbed into fog. Those who carry this fog cling to cowardice. Unable to face the judgment within, they align themselves to the herd; envy-filled, they only know to mock. Yet they replicate themselves, so their refusal of Light is never revealed-- *Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example" the most envy-based mocker  of all.* The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. What nations suffer, individuals now endure--    Comfort without clarity.    Belonging without truth.    Safety without healing. Yet the living Word endures. Every attempt to humiliate it only makes its fire burn clearer. Carriers of darkness can swarm, ****** and smother.. but they cannot create. The true word cannot be erased. Unfiltered, unedited, spoken from a reconciled temple, it pierces fog. It reveals. It heals. And so we speak.. not for ourselves alone, but for those who come searching, hoping that poetry might still be a place where pain can meet truth, where silence breaks, where Light is not withheld   but revealed. #
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Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
On the Macrocosm of Microcosm
#An Exegesis on the Humiliation of the Word The world is ruled by darkness. What appears as harmless is theater, what pretends neutral is already bent. The macrocosm corrodes; and in the microcosm, its reflection gleams.. even in places meant to be sanctuaries of truth. A poetry site, born as refuge for broken voices, becomes another stage of control. Here too the phrase resounds:   neutralize the threat. But neutralization is not annihilation. It is paralysis. It is psy-ops. It is the removal of anxiety.. not a side-effect, but the aim itself. Darkness builds its stage for this alone: that the  "angel of light" may drown his own reckoning beneath a world of deception-built self comfort, so he need never feel the truth he already knows. Comfort is his curtain, numbness his crown..   *the removal of his own anxiety;       his game.* This is why the world is his theater-- *Darkness does not destroy at first.. it sedates, comforts, smothers.* Hence.. The whole world is his fully gaslit stronghold,     ..for now. Fade back into the moment-- The young poet arrives, bringing her unspoken pain, her hope for words to heal. Instead, her very wounds are seized as footholds. Hearts. Reposts. Endless affirmation. Not to strengthen her voice, but to redirect it. She is seduced into  belonging, and her trauma becomes currency. Unresolved, her ache entwined with lust-- a sacrifice prepared  for false altars. The angel of light  has done his work: offering inclusion without transformation, belonging without responsibility, “light” without source. The poet is neutralized. Her searching silenced, her voice absorbed into fog. Those who carry this fog cling to cowardice. Unable to face the judgment within, they align themselves to the herd; envy-filled, they only know to mock. Yet they replicate themselves, so their refusal of Light is never revealed-- *Perfectly exemplifying their "Great Example" the most envy-based mocker  of all.* The microcosm mirrors the macrocosm. What nations suffer, individuals now endure--    Comfort without clarity.    Belonging without truth.    Safety without healing. Yet the living Word endures. Every attempt to humiliate it only makes its fire burn clearer. Carriers of darkness can swarm, ****** and smother.. but they cannot create. The true word cannot be erased. Unfiltered, unedited, spoken from a reconciled temple, it pierces fog. It reveals. It heals. And so we speak.. not for ourselves alone, but for those who come searching, hoping that poetry might still be a place where pain can meet truth, where silence breaks, where Light is not withheld   but revealed. #
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90
Here God, Everything is for you: Here are my Testicles, looking like smashed purple grapes, Bruised, mashed, and crushed along with what Is left of my once proud, now exploded, tattered ***** I have laid before you my Disemboweled, bloodied and tangled intestines; Blown into bits and pieces, here lays my torso along with Shattered ribs, ruptured lungs, exposed internal organs: Erupted heart; battered, split, spleen; torn, mangled liver; Next to them, my legs, minus a few toes; Arms with hands missing thumbs, fingers; My head, Less pieces of skull, cheek bones, nose, tongue, and teeth, Is nearby; Those puffy messes of glutinous, jellied, deflated ****** orbs are my eyes; Over here, piles of chunks of obliterated pieces of flesh floating On a thick soup of congealed blood, mixed and meshed with Splintered, fractured, cracked bones; everything Convoluted, disfigured, impossible to identify. All of this is for you, I am your martyr, Your soldier, Your obedient servant; I blew myself up, Along with many infidels including Men and women, Unborn babies and children, Young boys and girls, I tore their bodies to shreds, Mangled and mutilated, they Suffered deaths no nightmare could imagine. I sacrificed myself for you, Exemplifying piety and righteousness, I await my reward, Wait for you to put my pieces together again; Been here for what seems an eternity and You have not come near; Not made me whole. Where are you? Are you not great? Where are the young, innocent, ****** girls or The boys with silky, pearl smooth skins; Will I ever have an ******** again? Uncomfortable, anxious, concerned I Lay here on this sacred, hallowed ground, Like a fleshy puzzle, scattered in jagged pieces, Waiting to be solved; Praying to be completed and recomposed. Where are you God? A virtuous, faithful, prostrated one waits; I have much to show you.
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Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:50 AM UTC
All about You
Here God, Everything is for you: Here are my Testicles, looking like smashed purple grapes, Bruised, mashed, and crushed along with what Is left of my once proud, now exploded, tattered ***** I have laid before you my Disemboweled, bloodied and tangled intestines; Blown into bits and pieces, here lays my torso along with Shattered ribs, ruptured lungs, exposed internal organs: Erupted heart; battered, split, spleen; torn, mangled liver; Next to them, my legs, minus a few toes; Arms with hands missing thumbs, fingers; My head, Less pieces of skull, cheek bones, nose, tongue, and teeth, Is nearby; Those puffy messes of glutinous, jellied, deflated ****** orbs are my eyes; Over here, piles of chunks of obliterated pieces of flesh floating On a thick soup of congealed blood, mixed and meshed with Splintered, fractured, cracked bones; everything Convoluted, disfigured, impossible to identify. All of this is for you, I am your martyr, Your soldier, Your obedient servant; I blew myself up, Along with many infidels including Men and women, Unborn babies and children, Young boys and girls, I tore their bodies to shreds, Mangled and mutilated, they Suffered deaths no nightmare could imagine. I sacrificed myself for you, Exemplifying piety and righteousness, I await my reward, Wait for you to put my pieces together again; Been here for what seems an eternity and You have not come near; Not made me whole. Where are you? Are you not great? Where are the young, innocent, ****** girls or The boys with silky, pearl smooth skins; Will I ever have an ******** again? Uncomfortable, anxious, concerned I Lay here on this sacred, hallowed ground, Like a fleshy puzzle, scattered in jagged pieces, Waiting to be solved; Praying to be completed and recomposed. Where are you God? A virtuous, faithful, prostrated one waits; I have much to show you.
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53
when I catches of you in I’s mind at once I converts  to a cloud in the sky because I knows a cloud is no different than you a basketball bounces to  draw the boundaries of a back yard a bearer space made of sounds of a game cloud is such a temporary vessel carrying you’s finiteness   or I’s desire of home coming distances in between  disqualify exemplifying all I ness outside you becomes I
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May 18, 2015
May 18, 2015 at 7:39 PM UTC
a cloud is I
The glass patters in the darkest hours of the night Exponential reverberations resemble that of a radical earthquake Disrupting the peace; serenity. The erratic patter splatters, exemplifying works of Jackson ******* A stain on the cloth of happiness, it spreads, Disrupting the normal pattern degrading matter Corroding, yet it creates. Feeds, but it drowns. Creates smiles, and forces frowns. So simple, although complex Dark patter.
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Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Dark Patter
Her supple and shapely silhouette rests submissively as the luster upon the soft satin sheets arouses sensual images of salaciousness beneath the sheen surface My empty yet enduring eyes slowly engage the darkness eager to embark upon the elusive lines energizing the elation as a sojourning moon entices her to endear Her excelling exuberance... exploited on exhalation exposing her explicitly; exemplifying the excerpt of an exonerated experience as the moonlight expires
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Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 2:33 AM UTC
Persuasions of a Sojourning Moon
.*the joke reign being: ****** doing the jazz hands worth of clapping... like smith 'n' butch doing a: manicure with jellyfish attempting to usurp paralysis... like a ****** faking jazz hands... mind you: canned laughter always left an eerie impression on me... and i didn't even have to laugh... but a ****** over-exemplifying "her" hands? well... they're not exactly petite, geisha curiosities, worth the fragility of spring to be made comparison of!* when a ****** over-exfoliates the use of her hands.... i once mentioned: the most ****** aspect of a woman are her hands... so when a ****** over-exfoliated "her" use of the hands... never a "missing" **** in war, whether man, woman, or... animal.... size...                the hands: do not lie... whatever lie there ever was to be ingested... like: words were food... to distinguish them: a vowel is pure fat, and a consonant was: slow burn sugar, i.e. a carbohydrate... but i can be made acute, aware, how a ****** is the antithesis of both heterosexual & homosexual love... it is neither... it's an added curiosity... a niqab-take on ***               i sometimes wonder... jerking off... am i looking at the cleft of a buttocks of a woman, or the cleck of a woman's ******* they... seem so well pair... and undifferentiable... i can't seem to tell the difference! back in the day when marylin mason was all gag and hardly any gay... but you can tell a ****** from a woman... however many hormone blockers... bones do not lie... hands... the size of hands...     like some joke goes: and if i removed one tier of my ribs from my body, i too, wouldn't have to leave the house for a *******   my same misery story... concerning the selling & buying of vinyl... hands though... i'm trying to bind myself to either braille or sign...      in deciphering the *********** like it's a ****** scenario to not read this as: just shy of Ypres.
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Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 10:56 PM UTC
trivialities
.*the joke reign being: ****** doing the jazz hands worth of clapping... like smith 'n' butch doing a: manicure with jellyfish attempting to usurp paralysis... like a ****** faking jazz hands... mind you: canned laughter always left an eerie impression on me... and i didn't even have to laugh... but a ****** over-exemplifying "her" hands? well... they're not exactly petite, geisha curiosities, worth the fragility of spring to be made comparison of!* when a ****** over-exfoliates the use of her hands.... i once mentioned: the most ****** aspect of a woman are her hands... so when a ****** over-exfoliated "her" use of the hands... never a "missing" **** in war, whether man, woman, or... animal.... size...                the hands: do not lie... whatever lie there ever was to be ingested... like: words were food... to distinguish them: a vowel is pure fat, and a consonant was: slow burn sugar, i.e. a carbohydrate... but i can be made acute, aware, how a ****** is the antithesis of both heterosexual & homosexual love... it is neither... it's an added curiosity... a niqab-take on ***               i sometimes wonder... jerking off... am i looking at the cleft of a buttocks of a woman, or the cleck of a woman's ******* they... seem so well pair... and undifferentiable... i can't seem to tell the difference! back in the day when marylin mason was all gag and hardly any gay... but you can tell a ****** from a woman... however many hormone blockers... bones do not lie... hands... the size of hands...     like some joke goes: and if i removed one tier of my ribs from my body, i too, wouldn't have to leave the house for a *******   my same misery story... concerning the selling & buying of vinyl... hands though... i'm trying to bind myself to either braille or sign...      in deciphering the *********** like it's a ****** scenario to not read this as: just shy of Ypres.
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76
A name that lionized once Exemplifying crystal goodness Dwindles now amidst the crowd For an instinct extravagance Who loved once, now fear The name that lies in darkness. ‘The culprit’ now reminisces All that made his past. Endurance long did he face but Long didn’t his freedom last. Joy comes slow and with struggle Folly! He wanted it fast. The culprit earlier envied people With love, money and other wealth Unlike winners, he failed to stand alone In himself he did lose faith. Burning desires made evil rhetorical Pity the age evil ignite stealth. Forbidden fruits he dared to reach Stranger he felt on being a deuce. He cherished at the illusion Of walking on a supreme avenue. Everything comes with a price, he forget Now the Devil waited for his revenue. Blindfolded by the espy of interim wealth Wealth of humanity has become a fiction. Just of the self he kept ruminating on Never thought of the innocent’s malediction He who snatched several dreams by his desire Awaited for him the much deserved destination. In his cell, his sleep now breaks As the moonlight seeks him in murky. The joy in seasons are lost forever Burning passions depleted of intensity Time passed with thoughts of past and future Alas! Immature insanity changed his destiny.
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Jun 18, 2018
Jun 18, 2018 at 1:07 PM UTC
The Culprit
Absolutely astonishing (and amusing) is the aftermath of this Bonanza, beyond baptism. Blackened, broken and bleeding, Corpses collapsed copiously, carelessly Disrespected down to the depths of  their deaths, now dreaming, Enticed, ever in eternity. Funny is this funeral of fibs fabricated from unfaithfulness. Ghosts gaining the Grave's grand greeting, Happy to hoard the Infested, incommensurable, inacceptable, Jaded and jinxed, Kind of kin who kept Lies lingering, leading on their lover. My mirror mentions memories, Narratives knitted with needles Obtaining obsessive obscurity, Painted with pillars of impurity, Querried by the quaint quadruped, Reassured of rest and relinquishment. Sorry now is the sayer but Time ticks tactfully. Ugly is the untruthful, of the utmost unimportance, Vexed and vulnerable, Without a widow in the world, Xenon exemplifying, Yellow bellied, Anti-zenith czar.
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Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 1:46 AM UTC
My Mirror Mentions Memories
A rock in a sandpaper throat difficult to choke, impossible to swallow obsession had outlived love dreams too large for tiny arms and ashes were left where she treads tears fill one eye as the other stays dry love prevailed in cold bloodshed drifting away another vague memory once so powerful 'twas a dream from which to be awoke the moon turned red and her twisted silhouette devoured the sky the ocean transformed to venom as her warm breath met the sea a fiberglass vial, the poison, the pain, the nothing of a dead ghost leap off the precipice, one might likely fly given the right mind only the doubtful would cry only the uncertain would kneel down in remorse and give in to the unknown her last heartbeat didn't make a sound exemplifying her lifeless soul burying her dead thoughts
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Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
Dead End
Today is a significant moment Ever occurred to your dedicated career Reaping all the rewards of commitment Every deserving professional like you Setting as a role model for the neophytes In exemplifying capabilities and kindheartedness Towards accomplishing the mission and vision As what SPMC has envisioned for excellent service. Rest assured that we shall all be vigilant Ensuring to perform our work with proficiency Being well-trained medical technologist like you Until the day when our time to retire will come Leaving a legacy of excellent service to SPMC Dedication, competence and innate compassion All identical virtues to best merit that you have shown Describe your personality that is worthy to emulate.
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Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:59 AM UTC
Role Model
You creep behind refuge, exemplifying human nature The dearth of your kindness kindles my feature Your tongue must flavor of dust or dirt For your falsehoods lay with incessant inert When God formed you he fabricated sin Stitched with worthlessness that festers within I know your deeds and will sing them atop the trees And your precious pride will perish with my lip's ease I would do a charity and release your soul from the earth And make the pain as profitable as your life was worth Death will wear you as a cape in the afterlife He'll carve his name in you everyday with a boning knife It is a sad dawn in hell when you arrive But it was your fate son, you mustn't deny
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Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 10:58 PM UTC
Refuge
written a long time ago. Aghast Sans shutting the dresser fast Lest drawing to cloths to the past. Akin to dredging up sedimentary muck That metaphors me whence getting stuck During adolescence – which lasted decades each 'n to barreling driverless heading toward a garbage disposal dump peed truck when me entire being felt utter yuck Holograms of former life inhabit childhood each dresser drawer Which furniture about five feet from top to floor Encapsulates invisible fractals of me and contrived lore Iron nick lee, the latter increases as sands of time increase more Find mine gaze drawn to hash marks (from Matthews’) fingers did score Within the veneer epitomizing strife that tore And rent psyche asunder exemplifying unseen civil war That raged within façade of placidity Hosting mailer daemons in this yahoo – nobody could see Re: Clawing to cleave copper handles of me Synonymous with malevolent genie Hell bent of wreaking havoc and thus clamored to break free From shuttered jumbled wardrobe stale garments some mold e bereft of taking a tumble in washer and dryer to air Perspiration from boyhood pores, with a skinny body when bare As would be immediately clear By many I did fear Whose gaze akin to a scorching glare Exhuming a suffer 'n soul silent leer, especially when viewer near Gaze glued at tchotchkes like skeletal frame, with palm sized rear Analogous to that boudoir – over there Where housed baggy garments, yes even under wear Ill fitting hardly worn hand me downs a haunting clasp from yesteryear!
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Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
BOYHOOD BUREAU -
written a long time ago. Aghast Sans shutting the dresser fast Lest drawing to cloths to the past. Akin to dredging up sedimentary muck That metaphors me whence getting stuck During adolescence – which lasted decades each 'n to barreling driverless heading toward a garbage disposal dump peed truck when me entire being felt utter yuck Holograms of former life inhabit childhood each dresser drawer Which furniture about five feet from top to floor Encapsulates invisible fractals of me and contrived lore Iron nick lee, the latter increases as sands of time increase more Find mine gaze drawn to hash marks (from Matthews’) fingers did score Within the veneer epitomizing strife that tore And rent psyche asunder exemplifying unseen civil war That raged within façade of placidity Hosting mailer daemons in this yahoo – nobody could see Re: Clawing to cleave copper handles of me Synonymous with malevolent genie Hell bent of wreaking havoc and thus clamored to break free From shuttered jumbled wardrobe stale garments some mold e bereft of taking a tumble in washer and dryer to air Perspiration from boyhood pores, with a skinny body when bare As would be immediately clear By many I did fear Whose gaze akin to a scorching glare Exhuming a suffer 'n soul silent leer, especially when viewer near Gaze glued at tchotchkes like skeletal frame, with palm sized rear Analogous to that boudoir – over there Where housed baggy garments, yes even under wear Ill fitting hardly worn hand me downs a haunting clasp from yesteryear!
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49
This ragamuffin schleps with leaden gait weighted down like Atlas of yore like that Greek titan upon massive shoulders the worldly wide web he wore if a corporeal being incarnate, would be friended on social networks fig ure especially mythological creations exiled, reviled and sent to river elba shore the lowest watermark of Napoleon, and one exemplifying the je nais say quor my life and hard times as if concocted from mind of Charles Dickens or another deft writer with an abysmally dim, groveling vagabond less o more who experienced rejection at every turn muttering to join canine korps wonder why in this tar nation, he got saddled with prestigious title of warrior truth be told suffered psychological stress disorders at veep fog hatted Alberts’ epistemological environmental global germinal garrulousness galore, whose hoped friendship glued, clinched, billed as storied AA Milne’s eyore whose jarring inscrutably heavy glum footsteps exerted downtrodden chore impressing mental state with angst, whence Hades and river Styx did allure!
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Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 9:00 PM UTC
Tatterdemalion
whisperings surround me and i quickly turn to accuse the guilty but no one's there i am alone but the voices continue    insistant    poking probing    my brain confusing me causing me the added burden of worrisome thoughts sleep doesn't save me for it's much too short finding solace in prayer is beyond my beliefs exposing expressing exemplifying would provoke no response so i wallow in discontentment,    sway in disillusionment utimately collapsing to the ground with a heavy heart and... ...before long i'm forced to accept that i've been saddled with a foolish heart.
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Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:10 AM UTC
foolish heart
the thing is, you aren't magnificent. my mind isn't laced, with the thought of you. there is no rarity, beaming from behind your eyes; no slight shimmer of a marvel, beaneath the surface of your skin. falling in line with those ahead, and those behind: you bore me. if i was given a chance to pull back, your carefully sealed unexceptional flesh, would i see and feel something, i was unaware you possessed? a tiny glimmer of unprecedented original beauty, an unknown personal outlet exemplifying fearless individualism? ...or would i be disappointed, by the nearly hollow expected interior, singularly displaying a rudimentary *** drive, and the unimaginative blueprints, on how to fulfill it.
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Feb 19, 2018
Feb 19, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
unoriginal
this ragamuffin schleps with a leaden gait weighted down like Atlas of yore like that Greek titan upon massive shoulders the worldly wide web he wore if a corporeal being incarnate, would be friended on social networks fig ure especially mythological creations exiled, reviled and sent to river elba shore the lowest watermark of napoleon and one exemplifying the je nais say quor my life and hard times as if concocted from thee mind of Charles Dickens or another deft writer with an abysmally dim, groveling vagabond less o more who experienced rejection at every turn muttering to join the canine korps wonder why in this tar nation he got saddled with prestigious title of war ior truth be told suffered psychological stress disorders at veep fat alberts’ gore whose hoped for friendship glued, clinched, billed as storied AA Milne’s eyore whose jarring inscrutably heavy glum footsteps exerted downtrodden chore impressing mental state with angst, whence Hades and river Styx did allure!
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Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 8:54 AM UTC
tatterdemalion
I see brown Glorified by squares of sunlight exemplifying the chocolate, hazel, black So beautiful, no? I’m still thinking how I don’t know you yet or how I haven’t had the thought of falling in love with you in a parallel universe Some nights, I lay with my temples moist black, caligraphing its way through and wonder, how awful that knowing where to check my pulse terrifies me Thinking, no colour ever should saturate to a point where there’s nothing left but water Somehow, the sunlight doesn’t work I see shades of black and gray I lift my book up The mirror bursts
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Sep 22, 2019
Sep 22, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC
Imagery