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"fromthe" poems
symptoms of anhedonia.                    a triumvirate, perceived                    Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:                                       they are ugly triplets who hide under leather                                       and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot                                       noir                                              from **** knows where.                    their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,                    reach into my prozac pillboxes                    &crunch my anxiety (meds)                    into fluoxetine powder and ivory between                    their yellowing teeth. I Do Not Cry When The Sandman Knocks                                       For He Sits At                                      midnight:the witching hour,whenthe My Porch Bearing Sweet                                      siblings curl up besides me to Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch                   ,                   ravage; I’ve Long Wished For                                                         *they will not                                                                                        leave me                                                                            untilthe                                                          cloyingly sweet                                          perfume of Death        is scrubbed clean fromthe                                                                             pulse                                                                             point                                                                             of                                                                             my                                                                             wrists* There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here. Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.                                       here is the untruth:                                                          i am here,                                                          Penelope at her loom,                                                          waiting for a lost lover whom I know                                                          will take ten years to come back to                                                          my awaiting arms.                                       here is the untruth:                                                          in three years time,                                                          I’ll still be dead.                                       here is the truth:                                                          nothing exists six feet under except:                                                          hell                                                          chalk dust                                                          powdered calcium.
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Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 12:02 PM UTC
symptoms of anhedonia
symptoms of anhedonia.                    a triumvirate, perceived                    Inanition& Inertia& Inaptitude:                                       they are ugly triplets who hide under leather                                       and self-loathing &stink of last night’s pinot                                       noir                                              from **** knows where.                    their fingers, cigarette-stained and calloused,                    reach into my prozac pillboxes                    &crunch my anxiety (meds)                    into fluoxetine powder and ivory between                    their yellowing teeth. I Do Not Cry When The Sandman Knocks                                       For He Sits At                                      midnight:the witching hour,whenthe My Porch Bearing Sweet                                      siblings curl up besides me to Dreams &Sister Death, Whose Touch                   ,                   ravage; I’ve Long Wished For                                                         *they will not                                                                                        leave me                                                                            untilthe                                                          cloyingly sweet                                          perfume of Death        is scrubbed clean fromthe                                                                             pulse                                                                             point                                                                             of                                                                             my                                                                             wrists* There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing There is nothing for you here. Nothing will bring me back. In three years time I’ll still be dead. My bed sheet is my shroud and Death holds my wrists in a vice grip. He still leads me below.                                       here is the untruth:                                                          i am here,                                                          Penelope at her loom,                                                          waiting for a lost lover whom I know                                                          will take ten years to come back to                                                          my awaiting arms.                                       here is the untruth:                                                          in three years time,                                                          I’ll still be dead.                                       here is the truth:                                                          nothing exists six feet under except:                                                          hell                                                          chalk dust                                                          powdered calcium.
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Cold breeze in the summer time warm sun on my skin, blue sky's up above all my senses are tingling. my eyes are amazed by the sight that they see, it feels like iv been picked up and dropped in a day dream. A day dream that cannot scream, my eyes are Peaceful as they could ever be, a sight that's amazing as the warm sea running against my feet. My touch creates a rush blushing goose bumps like a red rose blooming some were in my heart. The sense that I'm feeling of everything around me that's alive and living is making my touch create memories that remind me that life is truly amazing. I smell the roses and the violets and the sweet smell that attracts the bees, the salty air fromthe sea blowing around in this cool breeze. I can taste the smell from my nose the seas so salty it's blue and it glows, taste buds coming alive water drops cuddling this dry mouth of mine. So many sounds from different places from many places these sounds are created. Birds humming away children filled with laughter as they play. Ice cream vans play their tunes the soft wind whistles through The blue sky speaks with silence my "Peaceful Soul is now peacefully smiling. JidosReality 19.6.15
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Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 11:05 AM UTC
Peacefully soul
What is the definition of being and nothingness? Answer: when you blink the eyes
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Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:36 PM UTC
fromThe Tiny Makeshift Handbook For Amateur Philosophers
I am your soul and your mind no evil will rise In your heart of love I will never let darkness destroy your beauty when I'm the your conscious who will make the fight to survive.societies games. You wounds will heal with loving care but your aggression will test you if you move away into a dark smile. Pure evill will trap every tear I have held back. I am your thoughts I am your safety I am your emotions I am the thing that will change you from drowning inside away fromthe light. I'll be the one who will keep you. Above so no pain will **** you <3
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May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 9:00 AM UTC
Blinded by the beauty of silence
a word a word whispered the tired wind is all that i heard from the song of a secret bird
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Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 4:42 PM UTC
FromThe Song of A Secret Bird