"inheriting" poems
I recall inheriting my first bike.
Solid steel.
Pink as a Maritime sunset, only more bright.
I remember replacing my sister's bike after two long years of back-n-forths -- two years of childish insults and character building -- as I choose to see it.
The thing was invincible -- rain or snow.
Save the rust, which had its way.
I missed that old bike for a time...
It was sentimental, as they say.
My next two broke down fast -- they were hardly comparable.
When I was able to buy my own, the excitement was unbearable.
What a beauty 14", titanium dirt jumper,
Canadian made Norco -- Red, it gleams.
Even to this day, twelve years downstream.
It's too bad it hasn't grown with me
Because I'm having trouble giving it away...
We've spent a short lifetime together
And I know I will rue the day
I forsake my childhood
And take
Three hundred dollars
In its place.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner émigré, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.
8.1k
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Backless. Spineless structures.
Faceless fathers.
And miracle mothers.
Brown boys teaching brown boys how to be men.
Brown boys teaching brown girls how to be loved.
Loving her like his “main *****
like his “side chick”
like his lies. Like his lust. Like his leisure.
Like a good ****
And she lets him.
She has never seen an example of love.
So he loves her. Broken.
And they reproduce.
Broken.
Another brown baby birthed into a broken home.
With a faceless father and a miracle mother.
Women raising boys into boys.
Not men but boys.
Women raising girls into bitter
Girls into *******
Girls into bisexual
because there’s no man present.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
Inheriting broken hopes.
Boys inheriting the name of a man he’s never known.
Inheriting personality traits from a man we’ll never know.
We’ll never know white picket fence,
We’ll never know 20 year anniversary
We’ll never know happy home
We’ll never know American dream.
We are the forgotten ones.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
With hand-me-down hopes.
And Mama’s Spit-shined smiles.
They classified us as the broken ones.
I am from a broken home.
But I am not a broken one.
I pick up my pieces, wrote some poems and made peace with it.
What’s broken can be fixed.
Brother. Be a man.
Sister. Be a woman.
Be royal. Be raw. Be real. Be you. Be king. Be queen. Be father. Be mother. Be love. Be trust. Be home. Be hope.
Be there.
Be there.
We are not broken.
We are the generation birthed into broken homes.
We are rebuilding.
Either lend us a hand or leave us alone.
Feb 16, 2014
Feb 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
City lamps in clusters of concrete
On 18th and Sherman street
The cars pass by scanning me
Each unsound engine roaring
Darting pupils
I feel it on my externals
On my lips and phalanges
Intruding glances cascading over
my silhouette
Deja-vu-like resemblances,
strange
Sunken cheeks look bizarre
and blotchy as the socket drains
something toxic to the veins
that's permeated the future in an instant, like a comet,
encandescent and shimmering like a scale, the awareness fades
Like some dreary mirage
I remember those little band aids
Vintage carnival tickets
discarded on the scratchy ground..
Blue-violet bruises
The paradox of pleasure
A vague creature in
it's discomfort
sitting in defiance and
quivering my sentences
It reminded me of those
incandescent bugs that
smush into Chryslers
With a curled lip, bulging eyes
and ******* up tongue...
Antennaes intertwined like
Twizzlers
Making peace with all
that's stung as the
windshield wipers turn on
Some black tar-smack-oil-
******
My generation consists of
inheriting environmental
destruction and mal-parenting
Global warming. Animal extinction.
Polluting the oceans. Deforestation.
Biting shards off night-time to
suffice for the daily pangs
Shuffling the dregs of karma
to grow roots and vines all about the room
It's not Winter yet
Under this morning dew
I envision it in my mind
A crystal ball vision
contorting into smoke
I caught it in my breath
Catatonically hanging
A turtle with it's legs bending toward the sky
Searching for my tribe and a pulse
on this Earth in sentient souls
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 8:18 PM UTC
A rich man's son inherits want
with no desire to work hands bare
Gives the job to another man
to look out from his easy chair
A poor man's son inherits grace
born of toil and sweat of his brow
He adjudged of hard earned merit
pushes on what body will allow
The rich man's son inherits greed
with what malice it may entail
Thinking others beneath his station
for lack of character he does ail
The poor man's son inherits kindness
which with all others level stands
Then asks the outcast bless his door
to share the fruit of his two hands
Heir to what is the rich man's son
tender flesh that fears the cold
To the poor never gives his time
nor dare he wear a garment old
Inheriting, it seems to me
what no good man would wish to be
Heir to what is the poor man's son
strong muscles and pounding heart
Chipped of a marble character
beloved by all he touched in part
Inheriting, it seems to me
what all good men would wish to be
Tate
This is one of three poems I have converted to a new all video format well worth the look at what I feel is the future of our art.
Original all video version
http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/aristate/1355765/
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
Its not a matter of your body or your age
the truth doesn't carry weight, but sets the stage
for the flow of knowledge: wisdomage.
To abandon nothing, but reinvent everything
including the wheel of your mind;
a complete surrender, absent knowing;
Inheriting nothing, reinventing nothing
including the dreams that you are;
a complete surrender to the way thus far.
We cherish the day, met humbly
without a care, in side and out a tribe in harmony
creating together, sans competition:
pacific planets orbiting the Sun.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
I am not the black sheep
I am not the odd duck
I am not the rebel child
I am not the prodigal daughter
Who am I then?
Well...that's a complicated question
I am not your archetypes or storylines
I am not your bad decisions or projections, your should-s
I am
I am what I will be
I am the technicolor, intergalactic unicorn
I am the pearlescent being of divine light
I am the Angel of Death of Dead Tradition
I am the she-Moses getting out of a desert of lies
I am
I am what I will be
Today, I am choosing
today, I am choosing to create me in lieu of inheriting "me"
Choosing well
choosing better
Choosing wiser
choosing more joyfully
Today, I am the randy interstellar unicorn
blazing a neon rainbow trail forward
Dec 28, 2020
Dec 28, 2020 at 4:22 AM UTC
So many elements
Make up this man
Let me open up
Show all that I am
Take a little insecurity
Fill these eyes with some tears
Take a little fear
Sew them into this skin
If I'm gonna show it all
I need to let you see everything
Open up this heart
Cut it in half
Let all the love bleed out
Just so they have no doubt
All I've got is yours too hold
Take these hands filled with hope
Come inside my mind
Where you'll see all these
Dreams on display
Sometimes this Imagination
Runs away
There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me
Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.
Take a little anxiety
A pinch of crazy
Pour a little jealousy
Over me
All these little things
With some humanization
That adds up to this creation
I'll walk this world
Arms wide open
You'll see every inch of me
Nothing to hide
No disguise
No agenda in my eyes
There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me.
Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.
Take a little self-control
Inject some humour into my soul
Drink down some bravery
Fill my warrior spirit
through a dance
Filled with fire
Fill these eyes with starlit skies
Feel power building inside
A determination to be great
Finding a way to new heights
Through freedom, Through flight
This is so raw, This is so real
You're inheriting all that I feel.
There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me.
Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.
Honesty soaks into my skin
Revealing truths
Layed out before your sights
And it comes as no surprise
All of these acts that take the stage
Are giving there all
No time for questioning
No time for dismay
Only came to display all it is they can be
With each opportunity that came there way
With belief in their talents shown
Audiences left with their minds blown
There is passion
There is inspiration
There is motivation
There is faith
Stitched into the fabric of my being
Strength and hope, open your eyes
And you will see
All these things make up you and me
Sprinkle some hurt
To fill the drive
There's a little hate hidden inside
Kept in the dark corners of our mind
But I choose love, that is where I side
Opinions could fly out from these lips
But that would be counterproductive
I'm just trying to be me
The best I can be
I'm just trying to see
A world in which I can exist
And be proud of all I've accomplished.
©2018 Written By Benji James
Dec 2, 2018
Dec 2, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
History
A simple Story
To thine own Self
Be True
The Path Leads Upward
There are many approaches
To the Summit.
But only One can
Attain it at a Time
Each must lighten
The load to
Make it
To that Final Place
Where Heaven takes Us
Up
Anti
Gravity!
Along The Way to
Supreme individuality: Collectivities
That demand Our
First Loyalties be to the
Group will Fear and distrust
The One
Who's First Loyalty is to
The True Self
So the final
Assent leads by way
of
Crucifixion
Christ is the Logo
The Icon of the
True Self of All
Everyone is on
The Way.
Honor your Mother
And Father
Raise them Up
For Salvation is of
The Blood
Your Blood
It is in the Overcoming of
Every Fear that
Prevents Man from
Being Good.
Towards Love
In Love
We are all ascending
Why? Because it is
Wonderful
The Most Wonderful
Experience of All
To Be Good
To Know That You are a Child
Of God...Inheriting
Eternal Life as
Your Birthright.
Bon Voyage -Mes Amis
Fellow Travelers
It is a Voyage
Well Worth Taking
Once...You
Must Forgive me
If I repeat Myself
I am of Old
First typed while listening to RIck Steves on PBS " Making Travel A Political Act" Thanks Rick
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 11:51 PM UTC
499
Those fair—fictitious People—
The Women—plucked away
From our familiar Lifetime—
The Men of Ivory—
Those Boys and Girls, in Canvas—
Who stay upon the Wall
In Everlasting Keepsake—
Can Anybody tell?
We trust—in places perfecter—
Inheriting Delight
Beyond our faint Conjecture—
Our dizzy Estimate—
Remembering ourselves, we trust—
Yet Blesseder—than We—
Through Knowing—where We only hope—
Receiving—where we—pray—
Of Expectation—also—
Anticipating us
With transport, that would be a pain
Except for Holiness—
Esteeming us—as Exile—
Themself—admitted Home—
Through easy Miracle of Death—
The Way ourself, must come—
1.5k
one frozen tv dinner later, i was
sitting on a bus in east athens.
going to meet my dealer, going
about my business, just like
we all were, then. that was before
and unfortunately, this is one too
many frozen tv dinners later. one
too many bottles of whatever was
left after i thought i had barely
enjoyed it all.
this is the step below, the struggle of
the common man. this is what our
parents didn't want us to see, this
is who they really were. we
are just inheriting it and will be
passing it along soon.
and we probably won't even care.
last november, it was thanksgiving,
and we were tired and hardly
thankful. you said it feels like home,
i said my food was still
a little frozen in
the middle.
Jul 20, 2011
Jul 20, 2011 at 7:27 PM UTC
*Bus poems are shorties written on the way home,
riding the M31 thru Manhattan. Often silly, often not...*
There is a contest that does not involve my P.S.F.
(Preferred Sport Franchise) this weekend,
truly don't give a good ****** who wins,
but that is no excuse to deny me my sir sore-losing,
victim status,
so richly deserved.
A triumvirate of doctor, g.f. and medical tests,
have on the field ruled,
once a year, a conjugal visit permitted,
tween my arteries and chicken wings.
there will pigs in blankets demanding attention,
potato knishes, and cole slaw juices, and a
foreign dignitary, Sayyid Cous-Cous,
lining up along side the quarterback who will be
'winging' honey and spicy passes to his favorite receiver,
this couch coach and impartial observer.
This is my Sunday fare.
If insufficiently highbrow,
for all you poetic aesthetes,
have no fear,
this athlete gastronomic,,
victim of his victuals,
will prepare mentally
by hanging with King Lear once more,
sharing a verbal tasting menu,
the day prior,
who once called me,
at a Giant super bowl party,
*“A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a
base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited,
hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a
lily-livered, action-taking knave, a whoreson,
glass-gazing, super-serviceable finical rogue;
one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a
bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but
the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar,
and the son and heir of a mongrel ***** one whom I
will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deniest
the least syllable of thy addition.”*
― William Shakespeare, King Lear
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
We are a generation,
Indeed, a nation,
Raised upon foreign warring.
Scapegoat aggravation.
Bushes and *****
Clamoring for horror and hoarding.
Conspiring against a population,
I watch through youthful aging.
With my childlike eyes, I see
The target they're blaming:
Afghan families having more
in common with me,
Working class American,
Than those transparent heirs
With the world's wealth and arrogance,
Ordering for the villagers' obliteration
Through boys from our nation.
We are a generation raised
On media sensation
Of militarized devastation;
Animal exploitation;
Technological manifestations
Providing privacy infiltration.
Material attainments;
Mental frustrations;
Fiat debt enslavement;
A nation entranced by
Senseless parading.
Tempting decadence and
Announcements with no evidence.
The September bounty of edifice
That fell with no hesitance
Still echo its unfounded,
Preemptive pretenses.
This murderous reign;
this senseless parade;
Advertisement cyclical
in their game of charades;
Dog on a chain;
Famine causing no pain.
Permissible opinions
To be solely maintained.
The damage, the waste,
The heinous race and class chase.
Oppression remains thoughtlessly dangerous,
As moral responsibility brings no attainments.
Chowing down on maimed millions
Bellowing from enslavement.
Fortunately, elder,
Rothschild, Rockefeller, or
Those above them whom
Remain blackened, faceless:
Resistance shall come
From all places, all ages.
Such as this generation of mine
Inheriting increasing complications,
With the type of America
You wish to keep in rotation.
I'll carry the flag containing
Your mistakes as a symbol,
To remind those behind me
What not to rekindle.
To the Boomer who stews
In your white collar suit,
Still refusing to shake
Your destructive pursuit,
Still asking me to lick
Off authority's boot:
Growing up in this nation,
With childhood innocence,
I grew increasingly aware
Of the land of such ignorance.
I had such thoughts since
Early adolescence,
I was not blind to larger lessons.
Only since supported by
Actual, factual supported confessions.
To the Boomer tied to his convictions,
Now will you see-
That isn't going to work
For us or for me.
I'll bring to this world
Whatever I please.
Which so happens to be
Truth, justice, and peace.
Aug 9, 2016
Aug 9, 2016 at 1:20 AM UTC
I have a first cousin
whose son is sick with leukemia
not responding to treatment
her Dad died earlier this year
and she had a brother
killed in a wreck at twenty-two
I wonder if she is the one
who is inheriting all the family tragedies
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
The Riche brothers and sisters
compile the remainders
of Manchester City programmes
from 1958 onwards, rusted staples asides
in a shuttered room,
Moorhens and crab apple bloom outside
keeps their e bay cottage industry bearable,
residual poverty waxes and wanes,
children always inheriting Granddads' stuff.
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 4:36 PM UTC
We were once all agog for the journey of life
Now just a mouse click leaves curiosity cured
Nescience masquerading as artificial cognizance is rife
Likes, follows, comments, thoughts and prayers lured
A slayer of ambition gave birth to the lazy
No will to work, no will to think, just click this link
And complain all day about how your life is crazy
Stare at the screen as if forgotten how to blink
Welcome to Medusa's social media inc.
Share every feeling that's on your mind
Arachne's weaving web now interlinks
A Giger painting has become mankind
It's embarrassing
It's depressing
It's caressing
It's inheriting
The natural beauty that lies outside
Left only viewed through filtered photos
Language devolved into hieroglyphic emoji replies
Tobler's ambition left reposed
Curiosity and ambition subdued
A final word
Adieu
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 2:37 PM UTC
Lady & Lord Dawson
presumably
lived quite
peacefully,
until one day-
Lady Dawson announced ;
" Forsooth"
Thy Lord Husband
Ti's heavy a heart I bear-
I spied
Thy self without powder or wig,
Not in thy house-
Betwixt an-others arms
Thy Lord Husband
& thy
Scullery Maid in
thy own barn"
Betwixt looks
on thee tempestuous
pocked face
Never rakishly looked to
Thee own Lady
Wife the same
Not
Thee be sad
Thy heart never break
For
Thy love never came.
Marriage of
Thy
Parents wishes
&
Thee inheriting
Thy gain!
Lady & Lord Dawson
" Lived"
Quite
Peacefully.............
(possibly 2 be continued)
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 3:57 AM UTC
If this is the best person I'll ever be
without being forced to be better,
but being naturally me
without practiced speach
or promising false qualities
without superficial touch ups
of exercise, diet
and surgery;
if this is the best I'll ever become
without inheriting a fortune,
or every bet won
without dotting every I
or learning the answer of every sum
without begging forgiveness
every time I get things wrong;
if this is all that I ever am
without growing confident and competent with every plan
or becoming a hero
or a leading man,
but just remain being
a normal imperfect man,
am I enough for you to love?
Jun 16, 2017
Jun 16, 2017 at 7:55 PM UTC
I enveloped the strange emotions which we ping as I eclipsed
your world and bid a tearless goodbye but I tanked
Yet I tattooed the pig on the green line
engulfed in diamonds
and drained
by your glorious throne
I pitched the ****** nightingales
a simple truce
feeling blackened with scars
burning in an ocean of salted
lies piped in the shame
of your venom
as I caked
I whispered
ocypus
I prayed to a bloodied red sky while purple with fear
I ran to the bed of the river where I tanked
seeing your soul floating about
I drained the rain as I pinned your
ghost to the wall
He raked your existence with a ding
crossed the road to burn
his ashes and they danced about
inheriting a swiped out
throne
the salt in your tongue
rotting with bitter
I warned you about the
snakes in the bed and the wolf
in the closet
biting off the head of the
lamb
I carried on without you over in my dreams and dropped
all manner of myself by the hint of a storm
fragile
peeling off the layers I sigh
dogged by the gloom
and wheat in your rye
I refocus
flaked in scars
and battles
I am boiled in anger
cracked with laughter
I am beset while enjoying me
a white russian
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
You were an heiress,
inheriting a life time trust fund
from a fortune made
manufacturing waxy kid's coloring thingamajigs.
Your mother drove you each school day,
in a classic powder blue Mercedes coup.
She was beautifully coiffed,
high bred serene, great skin,
And you were blond, blue eyed, smart and smiled.
When I saw you I always felt -
I felt not worthy of living on your planet.
A few years after graduation we met,
I had had a few beers so I told you everything.
I am sorry for causing you those tears.
Jan 18, 2011
Jan 18, 2011 at 6:33 AM UTC
heiress to the strange castle,
Francis ascended the high stone stair;
her ancestors had lived here from the beginning of
the country's history;
her family was older,
its history vivid in the dark of time
to those descendents
who were Francis' immediate family
all fallen to old age & death
except she youngest of the brood;
inheriting Frankenstein's Castle
the first place she went was to her
ancestor's laboratory,
long disused, old fashioned
& out of date, but flipping the
high-voltage switch bringing
the whole place to light & life as the thing
moved on the table & rose;
the doctor's last project
before being driven mad in the arctic sea,
the woman, who upon seeing young Francis
falls madly in love; Francis
seeing the gleam in the monster's
eye takes the time to get to
know her body & the monster likewise
got to know hers;
two beauties came out of the gray castle
looking like a pair of princesses
in the sun broken through the permanent clouds
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:26 PM UTC
The joy flashed across your face
The saddened creases faded
You became whole again in that moment
and today was the first day that we believed in remission
What has been inheriting your soul has been lifted
The reminders have been removed from view
You are you once again
All that can be asked now is for continuity
Let the joy of remission and comfort continue
Oct 11, 2013
Oct 11, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
This poem is no Billy’s babble,
I know this girl who tends to dabble,
Dabble with unkind creatures.
She’s beautious, dark, and loyalty-tied,
Non-gregarious, starry-eyed;
Starry-eyed for the inexpedient.
Wit is written on skin so fair
Eyes like skies, too deep to pare.
But pare her idea of ideal men.
Challenge, with whom her morals meet,
Picks scoundrels, wreaking calm deceit.
Deceitful words are hooks to her.
Beknownst to all but she herself,
These rogues take riches, turned to pelf.
Pelf, for she is better than them.
Too low they sink below her merit,
Her virtue, they could stand to inherit,
Inheriting her in return.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC
Portends of heartrending fancy
Cast of mind relapsed to one,
Image of what could have been
Had one completed, all begun.
Back through thoughts of distant ventures
Collapsed now with fall of time
Lost to mist as misadventures,
Disavowing child of mine.
Stranger still, with mind-set fading
Inheriting onset of pain
Forgotten now with cost evading
That, once proffered, lost to gain.
Caustic fortune teller ranting
Screaming forth “I told you so”
Where, in fact, advice dispersed
When, then, I told him where to go!
To and fro we swung to compass
Spun to reason’s child of chance
Life ambition’s lost accomplice
Fool adrift in fortune’s dance.
M.
Taranaki NZ
1 February 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 3:43 PM UTC
Too late now to wake up yearly-
depressing-needs as they rise up
to modernize for the blind to see.
Silent while you’re speaking up,
lying when you tell the truth
inheriting the empty hands
of meaning losing gentle youth while
chancing to find what’s sought at last
…gone awry.
Too early yet to stimulate and
leaking like a depressed sieve
too blind, alas, to modern eyes,
and speaking from a leery silence
too true a place for real lies.
Meek with no inheritance, while
all too kind to find the meaning,
seeking, yet can’t find a chance
…and clinging.
Yearly stem the tide to live
to take it in a bit too early,
weakening like a depressive
whose deeper rest is rising up.
Too blind now to modernize when
modern eyes are blind to see,
you’re speaking from experience
your silences, they speak to me
…as regrets.
Too true to realize you’re lying
even when you know the truth.
Meek like you are in the trance
of inheriting sad empty dances,
too kind now to lose the meaning
in meaning finding eloquence.
Finding when you seek to change
that you’re changing just to pass the tests
…of our age.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC