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s Dec 2017
when you ask me if I'm bored
of listening to your awful stories,
I wonder what boredom means to me
and why I'm grateful for mundanity.

you colour my life in every tone of grey -
in a nourishing, poetic, underrated way.
grey - the soul of every colour in the world;
invisible and aligned - right between extremes -
like all things well designed ought to be.

or maybe because grey
feels like routine,
and you’re the everyday
that's to come and that has been.

you're where I set my bar for normal;
you're my Sunday night pyjama informal.

You’re my common sense, and my reality check,
my perspective lens, my goodnight peck.
and even your grim phone voice
and plotless stories on sleepless nights
are part of the palette  I've come to adore,
painting magic in monochrome.
Sonia Thomas May 1
There are oceans in my body,
In your eyes,
And between us.

I have walked on water before and drowned.
My holy arms and legs said names and wrapped men as presents that they didn't deserve to be.

I am prone to wishful thinking
And my rapidly closing eyes
Are already building sandcastles.

Tear them down.
Tear them down.
Like you wore and tore me down.

Set me on fire and end me.
Nothing and too much are two extremes I have lived in.
Now bridge them and let me die.
I can write of Manila at night like the greats do of Paris. Not Manila in the morning, for it matters then, but Manila at night where it doesn't matter if it is new or old or if you are rich or poor, because it all blends into the moonlit darkness and that is when Manila becomes like a love letter. It may be Cebu that I love, but it is Manila that captivates me.

To the farmer, who left Manila for America to escape the war, and returned to see only a burned down church. To the young boy, a hundred years later, who does not see the church, but sees the romance of a concrete city. And to the ill man sitting on the corner of a street in Ermita, who has seen more of life and Manila than any of us ever will or ever can or ever want to. To the jazz bars tucked deep in Quezon where the music is sweetest, and to the congregation of poets who meet at their secret place in Makati on sacred nights to talk of the country they write for. Manila does not end.

But Manila is no moveable feast- it is a grand mystery that is far too heavy to take with you. Paris was loved because it was easy to love. The same way Florence was loved because it was easy to. Manila is far too rough to make for easy loving, but the beauty is there for everyone but the blind to see, and even then it is there for the blind to feel. One just has to try hard enough. It is what Manila represents, for it represents not the American dream, but the Filipino ambition to create their own. It does not become a question of how can you. It never will. It is a question of how can you not be romantic of Manila?
Here's to a city of extremes, and smog, and **** beauty
patty m Apr 2016
Smoke witch
gathering storm clouds
just past the peak of mushrooms
litanies of cicadas sing
scratchy melodies
to blustering winds
setting dust flying.

Rain let it rain, end the
violent extremes of this
desiccated land of summer.
Let it rain
where brooks once gurgled
and rivers rippled,
before entire  fields vanished
and we became the starving..

Anthems of thunder rumble
accompanied by bolts of lightning,
At last it comes in downpours,
sheets flattening in the wind. . .
rain-washed black branches
blend with overcast gray.
silver puddles shimmer.
Ankle deep in mud we twirl  
catching rain on parched tongues;
oh the blessed relief.  
The end of drought
and soon seeds of hope will rise
green against the dark rich soil,
food to appease hunger.

Moonlit gathering,
liquid bliss like tears moistens our cheeks as
we **** the marrow of acorns
and a handful of pine needles,
whispering in ancient tongues;
Shrouded figures among the trees,
a silver eye watches ferns uncurl,
We will endure,
running full force into the eye of the storm
stopping only to gather gifts from
earths shadow..
v V v Jan 2012
I wanted to see you where the years were kind,
inescapably etched and displayed like
smooth stones spread out on velvet;
but I wouldn't ask. I rummaged through zippers
and heavy things.

On a cool summer night we heard a hiss of
broken stars across the desert sky
and looked up in time to see one pass over head
like a science fiction rocket ship.
It was a moment with you I will never forget.

It's funny how things are settled or settling
and divided by extremes,
jealousy   -   anger   -   hurt   -  houses  -  
etched stones  -  broken stars,
stuff  you  can't  find  words  for,  
stuff  you  wish  y­ou'd  written  down,
words  that  end  up  on  gravestones.

So leave me  with my imagination and your beauty,
maybe some nostalgia as my muse, add one more thing
for sure, make my children our children
not   half - me - half - devil - children
and maybe I wouldn't have to run,
wouldn't have to start a war.

Maybe I could be happy without
your etched stones.

Maybe all I really need is a broken star.
Skye Marshmallow Nov 2017
Poetry.

A world of bitter sweet extremes
Bleeding hearts and unknown eyes
Forever friendships and lovesick smiles

A world of black and white
Wrong and right.

We live in freezing ice
We live in burning fire.

Furiously typing colour
Into a world that renders grey
Never letting duller shades shine through
Observations of an aspiring poet.
Vicki Kralapp Mar 2018
What’s more important, a gun or a life,
a religion, belief, or a child?

Our focus is lost, on extremes that have cost,
us the lives of the many defiled.

Weapons, religion, and money, we’ve made,
give us power to help or defend.

But the weapons we’ve made, and the choices they gave,
became blood of the many that died.

Religions of earth still dividing our world,
were created for souls to be fed.

And money and gold, here to help, we’ve been told,
made us greedy and haughty instead.

We forget that mankind is much greater than these,
calling us to refocus our hearts.

For these can be solved with one law you recall,
that encompasses all of mankind.

Mankind: our brother, our sister, our mother,
remember, that we all are one.

Let me ask this again, what’s important to men:
a child, a belief or a gun?
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
Ilion gray Jan 2015
In an instant with clash of
Anxious elements
You came reaching into existence
the moon that does not belong
To earth, told me you would
Come,
She fortold,
how you would be born
Between the great extremes-
Of Summer's light that
Gives us smiles,
The joy of love
Yet long are her days,
Her rays shining relentlessly
setting  fire
To forest,
Sweeping
Through cities
Yet,
Leaving ,
It's
Dust and ash in piles
Of us,

Until there is not a sound,
Nor a single rooftop left
Atop any building/
Now
the heat warps  the wood
Peeling back the ceilings
the fingers of
Flames digging in
Through the opening
Like a child
eating cereal out  of the box
Devouring every piece,
Even the broken
And crumbled
Eating up everything
******* up the emptiness
Until
The air is weak adrift
Scarcely ,
in strips of space.

  Parts of those things are in you
Yet,  you were also drawn from,
the strength of
Winters hands,
Reaching
Through stairs of clouds
And Suffocating the heat from the sun,
Then Walking over the earth
His feet a raging wind
Leaving footprints,
Of dead men.

You, are the first son of the first son.
Only God could name you..
That day, I stayed in the field
from morning
Till the hour became blue
I waited in the wild,

Waiting for a storm-
when it came,
I stood at its feet,
I listened to the myriads of voices
Of the rain
Listening
for a single word
Entering mid heaven
A word that only I could
Hear, spoken in a language
That was written in my blood.

You my son, were given a name
That will never end,
You who will rebel against the tyranny of time,
You who will preserve the tablets
Of the days I have witnessed
Of the things seen and what is yet to be
Of the things that only you will know
Of the choice that you must make
To search for the almighty
Or live silently among the liars
waiting through the seasons,
Until the dreamless nights endless come to you.
Of these days it seems god has left us,
Know this: he is there,
look for him..while he is still to be found.


And you will sing ‘til your lungs give in
To the killing wind
And though god no longer hears the children cry
You will transcend in a roar
Shall raise a sea of stone eyes
And in the darkest place
upon the eldest star
in the emptiest stitch of heaven
Where the angels go to die,
god will hear your song
wrapped In whispering drops
Of rain traveling in reverse
Towards heaven
Perhaps he will remember
that we are here,
My son,  you must try..
To raise the eyes of men
If only we could begin again and slow down the pernicious pace
We ruin our oceans, the land, our air even outer space.
If only we avoided such precarious paths that may lead to disparity
If only we knew what action is needed now, to deal with the reality.
Ecologists warned, yet still observe with ever-growing anxiety
the growth of harmful long-term effects on Earth's biodiversity.
If only the air wasn't gravely polluted, so the atmosphere begins to fail,
so wreathed by carbon dioxide layers, extremes to climate may prevail.
If only Earth's lungs cease being shrunk by profits heedless exploitation,
existing relationships are considered scarcely in these aberrations.
If only a solution for discarded synthetics which float in **** hordes
on oceans global drifts, disaster occurs wherever it reaches landfall.
If only we can do something, a belated but resounding universal call,
If only we can safeguard the future before there are no options at all.
If only we could begin again and slow the ruinous pace... if only

If Only

M C Crowder
@scorsby
19th November 2018
I first wrote song lyrics in 1978, song lyrics not so long, but it's message hasn't changed
FIRST DAY

1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!

The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.

I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.

I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!

The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.

What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!

But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.

The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.

Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.

Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.

Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.

Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?

I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.

It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.

Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!

But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.

Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!

Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.



2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.

Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.

The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.

Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?

The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.

Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.

Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.

You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.

Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!

Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?

Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.

Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.

Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.

Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.

Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.

Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.

Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.

Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.

From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.

Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:

Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!

Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.

Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.

It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.

Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.

He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.

And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.

3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!

An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.

A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.

A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.

A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.

A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.

A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.

A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.

A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.

An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.

A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.

A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.

Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.

A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.

A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.

An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.

A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.

A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.

Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.

An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.

A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.

4.
Does Chicago have a future?

This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!

Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains

Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.

Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.

Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.

You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?

I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.

The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.

The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.

The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.

The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.

Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?

Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.

Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.

Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.

Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.

Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.

Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.

What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.

Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.

Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”

Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.

I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.

Sorghum,
I think its hardy.

Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.

Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.

Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.

When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?

You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.

Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.

Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.

The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.

Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.

Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.

This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.

Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.

Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.

Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.

Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.

Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.

This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.

5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.

Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.

Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.

Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.

People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.

Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.

Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.

Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.

Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.

Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.

Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!


SECOND DAY

1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.

According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.

The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.

I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.

Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.

I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.

Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”

He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.

Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.

The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.

He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.

I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.

I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.

The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.

It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.

The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.

Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.

Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.

On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi­,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports­,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.

Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.

2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.

He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.

Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.

He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.

All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.

Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.

I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.

Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?

Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?

I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.

"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”

No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?

I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.

I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.

What level
is he speaking of?

Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.

I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?

What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?

What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?

This seditious talk!

3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.

People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.

Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.

The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.

Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.

The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.

It is the true level
of this city.

The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.

Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.

A blessing,
Chicago?

All rivers
come here.

All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.

All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.

Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.

We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.

Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!

Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.

Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.

He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.

Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.

The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.

Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.

Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.

**** even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.

Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.

A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.

The Blues live
on in Chicago.

The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.

The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.

Music:

Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago


jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
Keith Collard Nov 2015
How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover while all alone.

How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose,   I view  blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling triumph of my surface's relief is from breathless sandy ovation beneath, for before my baron plains were slain and put to sleep, they braved the great inferno winning solar armor in golden fleece, for who can brave my extremes,
When my axix turns from cold still darkness to fusion heat,

But now is my region of my silver repose,  no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power,  the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood,  and on my stare, intense solar flare,  watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,

I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause  can't bear to sit,  to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit,  to be mercurial is my theater caused by applause, my temple's pale light of long dead stars.  It is the sadness of a fire that will never start--my annual Parthenon in short lived geminid sparks.
Ophélie S Sep 2018
i.


not bad,
i commented to myself as i watched you do your thing
for the first time ever ;
not bad was my way to say
extraordinary
still is today
i have standards, you see and —
well...
they were met when i
heard you say,
"that's only half what
i can do."

let's get this straight:
i was the best at what i do until
you came around ;
it's not like i'm mad though —
quite the opposite 
in fact.


ii.


here's something else:
i have always liked the way your eyes
shot daggers
even when you were smiling ;
a death stare, they named it and, you know,
i won't call them wrong —
i'm rather fluent with the concepts of
death
and staring myself, after all.


ah,
do you remember?
when we spoke to each other —
it was always a sparring of
eyes
rather than words.


iii.


a fact:
you have been called cold
more often than
you have been called pleasant ;
i know  —
it's not like you'd disagree
not like you'd be ****** enough to
deny ;
cold is a comfortable shadow
to hide in,
something people like us
wear as a coat or
a scarf
from july to june.


now,
there's this saying that the addition of
two negative objects
turns them a positive
result ;
i'm not much of a scholar so, honey,
what's on your mind?


iv.


i get it now,
if i'm propellers
you are wings —
rather than a mirror, we're
distorted reflects
a thing evolution knows
a great deal about ;
this yearning is the aspect of you
i'd wish to keep
bottled up ;
"what for?" you'd ask.


no,
yearning is not a thing
i'm a stranger to ;
i've yearned for many things including
strength
sleep
serotonin
and you —
i've been struggling
to make them mine, though
perhaps because i'm never really trying.


v.


that's how you do it:
you take what you want with
clawed hands
accomplish miracles with
thunderous silence —
an entity of cruel fairness,
icy anger but —
what you want is a complicated
thing
with definite shape to your eyes
but blurry to those of
others.


okay,
i'm neither believer nor seer but
here's a little prediction :
the day you are satisfied is the day
hellmouth
shuts down upon us all and
half of me
prays for it.


vi.


about extremes —
some will say grey is a better shade and
though i confess
it does have its charms,
it still has to paint me a picture more striking
than a soul with
adamentine purpose.

see —
i stare as you pass by,
terrific in beauty
beautiful in hardness and
off —
goes my heart, sanity, ego
and shirt.
Deborah Downes Sep 2016
Between
Black and White
Right and Wrong
War and Peace
lies the
Gray zone the
Blurred line
Middle ground
Limbo

No boundaries between
Good and Evil
Moral and Amoral
Thin ice and
Solid ground

No safety net to prevent slipping into extremes
No caution signs or flashing lights to guide our steps

We live and die in a
Fairy tale with alternate endings penned by
Politicians
Media moguls and
Religious fanatics who
Convince us to
Choose from a stacked deck to
Win a fixed game
Compliment us on our finery
tho we are threadbare or *****

We live in the land of the free where the
Rule of law applies only to commoners
Opportunity comes with a price few can afford  and
Everyone has the
Right to work and the
Right to be exploited

You might be dwelling in the kingdom of surreality if….

Conflicting images are presented as harmonious
Opposites are blended to form bland
Ugliness is sugar-coated and swallowed whole
Love and passion interfere with success.
Val Vik Feb 2018
I follow peace and speak the words of endearment
However, I also believe in the Second Amendment

I like to smell~ to wear~ to eat~ and to smoke plants
However, I don't take LSD or any man-made narcotics

I dig the whole idea of ~ "go with the flow" ~~
but I also like to take charge to achieve my goal

Smooth~ slow~ hours of ***: inspires my new Haiku
However, I have to admit that I like it rough too!

We all live between the two extremes
the beauty of learning the Yin and Yang teachings
This was written for fun! nobutthurting
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1265397/im-no-******-hippy/ for those who want to read Part 1!
Big Virge Oct 2014
Folks ...
It is a ... " Fine Line " ... !!!
that ... Clearly ... Defines ...
the road that I ... Walk ...
with words that I ... Rhyme ...

cos' ... words that I ... talk ...
may see me ... in ... Court ... !!!

without ... " Sean " ...
or ... " Just Cause " ... !!!

because of YES ... " Them " ...
Those in ... Governments ...
and Those ... who they ... send ...
to enforce ... " Poor Judgements " ... !!!!!

but ofcourse ... They'll Contend ...
That ... My Wordplay ... OFFENDS ...
and may well stir up ... " Trouble " ... !!!
and cause .... " VIOLENCE " .... !!!!! ....

But ....
It's okay for ... THEM ... ?!!!?
to say ... " What They Like " ... !???!
and Declare ... Their War Fights ...
as forms of .... " Defence " ....
when plans they ... Design ...
keep causing ... PROBLEMS ... !!?!!

Well ....
It doesn't seem like ... ?
their actions are ... Right ... !?!
When ... Every ... News Night
The Things ... In Our Sight ...
KEEP ... Showing Us ... VISIONS ...
of people who ... " DIE " ... !!!!! ...

Now ....
That's A ... "Fine Line" ...
I have ... Re-designed ...
from Princes' ... " Great Song "...
The ... " Sign 'o' The Times " ...

So ...
Don't get me ... wrong ... !!!
My lines are ... " Refined " ...
and Clearly ... "BELONG" ... !!!
where fine lines ... recline ...

Each line that I write ....
Proves my mind is ...

...... " Inclined " ......

to write about crimes
affecting .... Our lives ....

and it is a ... "Fine Line' ...
that helps me to ... FIND ...
a way to ... " Express " ... !!! ...

My ... " Anger and Stress " ...
About ... How We ... TRY ... !!!
to do ... what is ... "RIGHT" ... !!!!

But .....
What does this mean ?!?
in a world so ... "Unclean" ... !!!!!

What do we stand for ... ?
when going to ... WAR ... !?!

We should take a .................
.............................................

...... Pause ..............

and ... THINK of ... Our Cause ...
Is making .... Blood .... POUR ....
what we're ... Really here for ... ?!!!?

If you're thinking ... "YES" ...
Are you .... " Really Sure " .... ???

How would you feel ?

if the blood poured
was ..... YOURS ...... !!!

or ....
Someone ... YOU LOVED ... !!!
and Really ... Cared For ... !!!!!!

Well
As these lines ... State ...

It is a ... "Thin Line" ...
between YES .....

" Love and Hate " ...

but ....

"Hating" ... For REAL ... !!!
Won't help us ... Relate ... !!!

These days ...
it's quite ... CLEAR ...
The Dangers of ... FEAR ... !!!!!

But ...
That's ... Nothing New ... !!!

The past's given clues ...
of how ... IGNORANCE ... Fuels ...
individuals to ... USE ...
Torture and ... "Abuse" ...
Through crews filled with ... FOOLS ...
who think ... Hatred ... IS COOL ... !!!!?!!!!

Well ....
Hatred Profiled ...
Does NOT ... !!! ...
Lead to ... Smiles ...

It leads to a ... place ...
That's Not ... quite so great ...
and leads us ... though leaders ...
who like to .... DICTATE ....

Like those around .... NOW .... !!!
who want to ... "Clamp Down" ...
on people like .... me ....
whose wordplay's ... So Neat ...

That .... Our Poetry ....
Gives Policemen ... " A Beat " ...
That makes them ... RETREAT ... !!!!!

See what I mean ... !!!

My ... Poetry Seams ...
are ... Suitably ... Clean ...
and walk a ... Fine Line ...
of ... " Quality Rhymes " ...
that ... Bypass ... Extremes ...

because they're ... Inclined ...
to .... " UNIFY " .... minds ....

See .... that's how i'd like
My Wordplay ... DEFINED ... !!!!!

Speaking ... Your Mind ...
Should ... NOT BE ... A Crime ... !!!!!

Unless what you say ...
Divides and spreads ...

...... " HATE " ..... !!!!!

I'd rather spread ... " LOVE " ...
Through ... " Kisses and Hugs " ... !!!

while most now ... Indulge ...

In Acting like ... THUGS ...
and taking ... HARD DRUGS ...
when they've .... had ....
...  " Quite ENOUGH " ... !!!!!    

People like ... THESE ...
make me want to ... CUSS ... !!!!!!!

But ....
These days i'm ... TRYING ...
to ... Rise uP .... ABOVE ....

These ... " Wannabee Thugs "

Who spread talk of ... " Dying "
cos' their words ... NEED ... !!!

....... " Refining " ....... !!!!!!

Things you ... Put Out ...
Come back son ...

.... " Don't Doubt " .... !!!!!

Now, that's a ... Fine Line ...
that's got ... Lots of ... CLOUT ... !!!

So think ... CAREFULLY ... !!!
before ... Running Your Mouth ... !!!!!

Fine Lines ... that I write ...
of ... Upsetting Designs ...
are ... NOT to ... Start Fights ... !!!

So ....
REMEMBER ... That Line ... !!!!!

They may cause ... Offence ...
and may cause ... Arguments ...

But ......
USE .... " Common Sense " ....
and ... REJECT ... " Violence " ... !!!

Keep a ... " Cool Head " ...
Like ... "Des Dekker" ... said ... !!!!!

Then ... Pick up a ... PEN
rather than ... Make Attempts ...
to bring me .... DISTRESS .... !!!!!!!

cos' you ...
want to ... SUPPRESS
A view i've expressed ...
that's left you ... UPSET ... !!!!!

That message is ... SENT ...
to those ... " Jealous Gents " ...
Who Think they're the ... BEST ...
at writing ... Fine Lines ...
with words that they ... Rhyme ...

Well ... CLEARLY ...
They're ... "BLIND" ... !!! ...
and ... Out of Their ... Mind ... !!!!!!

to think that ... Their Rhymes ...
are ... Better Than ... MINE ...  ?!? ...

Those causing us ... STRESS ... !!! ...
are those in ... " Governments " ... !!!!!

They ... Plan to ... DIVIDE ...
NOT ... see us ... " UNITE " ... !!!!!

THINK ... about that ...
before starting ... FIGHTS ... !!!!!

" Black On Black " .... crime ...
has been ... " Long Designed " ...

Don't You  ... think it's time ...  ?!?

We start to fight ... THEM ... ?!?!?
and their ... " Bogus Systems " ... !!!

That's where .....

I will ... END ...
This simple ... Poem ...  

cos' ...

Words in ... " Those Lines " ...
May ... cause me ... PROBLEMS ... !!!!!

Even though ....

Their JUST ... Rhymes
that flow ... and ... DEFINE
How the words ... I Transcribe ...

REALLY WALK ... !!! ...

.... " A Fine Line " ....
My words do walk one .....
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
-Lyrix

-BluJazz

Do you remember
what I will not forget
Maybe you'll still
remember me
or maybe live
with your regret

I remember all the ways
I love you
and the fragrance
of your taste
The way you said
you'd love me forever
as your tears
caressed my face
as your tears
caressed my face

You said I got you crazy
and I got your crazy too
Crazy Love is
the love that endures
and it's the only love
that's truth

Baby, there ain't no
doubt about it
I'm truly crazy
in love with you
Truly crazy
in love with you

When you left I went to ****
and still I'm fighting out
Someone said you
went there too
and how your
getting better now

I told you that I'm no one
Nobody is my name
You said that no one else
but nobody
will you ever love again
you will never love again

I remember all
the ways I love you
and the fragrance
of your grace
The way you said
you'd love me forever
as you kissed my tears away
as you kissed my tears away

Now I have no way
to reach you
just a whisper
in the breeze
Perhaps you
might remember
what I will always
still believe

Remember all
we promised together
in Our love beyond extremes
Maybe you'll
remember if only
in that place
where lovers dream

I suppose you
might remember still
and I hope
you'll not forget
Do you hold
Our forever love
in your heart where
forever love is kept

Listen you will
hear me calling
in the breeze
where whispers play
My vow is to love you
forever right now
and forever come what may
'til forever come someday

I remember all
the ways I love you
and the fragrance
of your taste
The way you said
you'd love me forever
as your tears
caressed my face

My vow is to love you
forever right now
and forever come what may
'til forever come Our way.

-R.

Memrl Day
(5.10)
-Hlywd

-4MAR
©2017
Sarah Oct 2018
if i'm not falling i'm flying
if i'm not changing i'm dying

why can i only exist at extremes
instead of living in between?
this is really short but ya know. it is what it is i guess.
Michael Smit Nov 2018
I don't want to choose sides
And don't you dare force me
There is a fight that hides
One only I clearly foresee

You sometimes make me sick
To extremes that I only sleep
You lay it on so thick
That my heart can't help but weep

So then I distance myself
Till the storm is away
It's better for my health
And than to do what you say

I still love the both of you
But sometimes love is a arrow
Even if its true
It left my choices narrow

I don't want to see you fight
Go do it somewhere else
I'll go look for light
And listen to some church bells
Andrew Dec 2017
There is dirt mixed with blood
Underneath our fingernails
Our life is mixed with mud
While we fight and flail
The struggle is for my agency
Otherwise I feel they're ****** me
I feel they are replacing me
With an imposition of their will
Love as vast as the sea
Wouldn't get them their fill
Their emotions they ****
For a ****** thrill
That could be achieved by a pill
But instead they use power
For they understand in this hour
There is a mentality
Of fatality
Where we minimize our enemies to their negative desires
So we can build with our allies oppressive empires
Until the whole world is on fire
And these rapists can do as they please
When it's systemic they do it with ease
In a world without trust
They are the beneficiaries
They care only for ****
With actions incendiary
Burning the forest they hide in
Where our secrets provide their shade
Because overwhelming suspicion pervades
The image of all strangers
We see only danger
And our judgement is skewed
When everybody is considered a ******
Yet there are only a few

There is a moment
When I make a ****** decision
I am not sure what the recipient's reaction will be
There are two negative extremes to this situation:
1. I will **** them
2. They will falsely accuse me of ****
Our ****** lives are navigating these issues of trust
Between those extremes
But when our definition of ****
Starts to define the victim's comfort
As more important than the violator's intent
We show an unwillingness to understand and a bias
Which would give anyone reason to not trust someone
And the ****** atmosphere becomes one of uncertainty
People get into relationships so they don't have to worry about it
But bachelors must consider these things
**** victims must too
As well as the man sitting in prison for fraudulent claims
One has been illegally *****
The other has been ***** legally
I'd imagine both might see a world of rapists afterwards
Yet there are only a few
Brie Pizzi Nov 2018
I want to be happy.

I want to be content with the simplicity of life.

I want to stop living in extremes.

I want to feel what it is like to be in love
              without having to relive old memories.

I want to stop experiencing highs off of sadness.

I want to be able to take a deep breath
                in order to feel relief
                           rather than a gasp for air
                                     instinctual to my survival.

I want to welcome passion in again
               with wide open arms
                          feeling its embrace
                                   remembering its smell
Bee Jul 2018
darling
let us fill our lungs
with corruptive smoke
and descend into delirium
so we may appreciate the moments
when our breaths consist
of purely air

let us drown our stomachs with poison
so we may savor the potent mix
of acid and alcohol
searing our throats
and numbing our skin

let us sink our teeth
into the ripe flesh
of the forbidden fruit
and swallow the pit
while we´re at it

let us drink to forget
and kiss like careless strangers
as we bury ourselves under bodies
so we may feel something other
than the weight of the world

let us dance beneath a storm
not of rain
but of blood spilling out
of open wrists
with mouths gaping
and hearts shattered

let us relish these blurred eyes
and hazy memories
as our hands touch
but do not meet
let us hold each other too tight
skin bleeding into skin
nail marks freckling your back

i can no longer hear the music
so let us sing our beautiful lies
take my hand
and let us run through grayed streets
with reckless abandon
and as we go
we can pick the roses
allowing their thorns
to imprint new scars
between our fingertips

let us tear the feathers
from a white dove
so we may weave ourselves
wings to fly
to touch the sun
and steal icarus´ name

let us ignore our ambitions
and explore extremes together
let us shatter our expectations
and as two beings collide
let us breathe each other in
and indulge as if it were
our last moment on earth

darling
let us taste death together


x.
Sink or swim
Holding onto my sanity with a broken limb
There wasn’t much to hold onto
A broken girl with broken dreams
I would go through impossible extremes
Trying to catch a breath
But now i just wanted to be put to death

Some sort of beauty in all the pain
Trying so hard to appear perfect
Was there ever much to gain
Makeup running down my face as i wept
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