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Frieda P Oct 2013
These poetic issues are full of antithesis
consistently random at best
no means yes to friendly enemies
personal business is as public opinion
it's all pretty badass, now and then...
an adult child speaks invalid relevance
the big baby in a dark comedy
mild enthusiasm of a life denied,
constant ambivalence of brief speeches
this chilling fever has risen in acute apathy
of confirmed rumors by current history
equally diverse in the same difference
whilst the walking dead, accept rejection
burning cold in their blind sight
sigh to a clearly ambiguous sad smiley,
yet everyone generalizes a beautiful disaster,  
odds are even, my head is seriously insane
living deceased what a crime, the future is today
honestly kidding*...No comment
It's totally nothing~
RosesAndAngels Jun 2016
This world is run by a maker at heart,
Who at times likes to play his part.
However, don't expect him to get a clue,
A hint to why you are so blue.
He winds up our gears, and cogs,
Setting up our days like Lincoln logs.
This world is run by a crazy man,
A skeptic by trade, who does what he can.
He thinks we are not the same,
He generalizes us and we are all to blame.
Who is this man of the hour?
He watches all from his strange tall tower.
He will tell his name to you,
"Hello, I am stereotype, how do you do?"
1:48 can't sleep
Johnny Noiπ Oct 2018
He helped the woman to his left, a *******;
and the gray ocean of darkness,    his clothes,
empty ***** of an abandoned ghost himself;
the movement of completely destroying
the desert sky was hidden from the Jewish
white flame of a gypsum of soda, the saint
of the turning of the dawn, the love of loves,
the lived lore of the girl pronounces in vain
the knowledge,  the income of the furry head;
the crazy beats watching Moses, the rain
a song on the skin, with the meč, inside her
políbila **, and his weak point planet
from the Teen game generalizes kisses to feel the color
               of the flesh
of the decision issued a vision to talk with other lovers;
and fond of good arrows on the ground,
holding the body feels like a sock
and on the opposite foot,  another sock,
and the clients who were prostitutes
with the strings across the gap of darkness,
the clothes of the fan,  the WITCH pointer
loves it, put on in the desert of the garden,
he was concealed from the Hebrew painting, ||
the first of the holy desert king in the shadow
of the light of the symmetry of the gypsy, |
who loving to save, fell into licentiousness
in the turn, standing at the origin of the United States,
speaking as Daughters of the South at the back |
of the opportunity to live a bit of ****
and a bit of furry skin of help,   listening to the music
of a crazy man dropped a ******* off in dark clothes
with empty ****, ghost *****,        an emotional soccer
paradise hidden in the desert, James kills the F template;
and draws the abstract gypsy to the new shadow king |
dawn
loved; sure mum cops taking calls in order
of origin: The hot **** bartender's victory,  
East turned his fingers to keep injury,  enough
to kneel to the US genius we live ****
and their daughters winds return fine hairy
ears, crazy rhythm **** ax, the lower part
taking over the area even knowing they leave
women's tanned songs of skinny teenage
flesh hiding under the colors including
watching during the summer kisses felt
holding the country was wonderful Maria
sides with the YWHA, large corporate
boots were shaped |||
in one sense,               says the Jewish tomato.

— The End —