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"immanentism" poems
Bullets cut through the air. Making noise that would drop Napoleon to his knees. This night has turned into a screaming prayer for death. Forgetting the definition of pleasure. Dealing with the immanentism of pain. Dwelling in this world unknown to most, Has become common place to one. So common to which lacrimation has become all too ordinary. Come to find out this is all nothing more than MONDAY.
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Feb 1, 2010
Feb 1, 2010 at 5:05 PM UTC
john-t-davis-1
Common Place
Bullets cut through the air. Making noise that would drop Napoleon to his knees. This night has turned into a screaming prayer for death. Forgetting the definition of pleasure. Dealing with the immanentism of pain. Dwelling in this world unknown to most, Has become common place to one. So common to which lacrimation has become all too ordinary. Come to find out this is all nothing more than MONDAY.
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