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de Negre Sep 2018
somber bomber i like ducks
we dont love the gov it *****

(my friend erin said the ****?)
i did arrands rode the truck

the trip i flipped and made a sound
i skipped a bit and saw a hound

sorry pa he saw the mess
the current system likes to test

they see how fast and smart we are
so we can crash and part a car

there is no point to living now
maybe cause'
i was never
taught
how.
greeeeeeeetings amigos welcome to our new program #quickie3 yeeeeeee
de Negre Sep 2018
perilous are those decisions
you haven't yet made
         afraid of the seed the tree
questions its own validity

inconsequential are those thirty minutes
before a decision
         the wind moves the branches without
the tree's choice

forgiving are those moments
in bed asleep beyond not here
         the tree can't spot failed saplings
without the daylight which lets them grow
quickie #1 is the start of other quickies which may might maybe not probably this is the only one possibly could come quickly soon later now often somber; quick. eeeee
de Negre Nov 2018
what are you(or what you always once were)other than
the twirl in the string and the root under oak. the
math in the pattern and the mirror beyond the reflection.

i feel i know no other(beyond my sentiments
of you, dearest)and the blanket of your soft touch. your
warm breath melting the ice caps of my sorrows.

you are the legs shared by men and table; the
frame yet the paint; the brick and the roof(
protecting me from myself);and the cloud of the rains.

you are the flash before death, you(and only
you)are birth, you are the reflection, you are the pen
but most importantly you are you(and no one other).
i wish it was about someone specfic
de Negre Sep 2018
once present,
the shadows of the not-so-forgotten
the shadow of me
we'll be used as images
to display suffering
as two animals, (nearly the same seen
from the outside)
they are tied together
arguing, like children
about why such a thing
such a painting
of my shadow on the wall
would happen

the phones will know, they will chat
speaking amongst each other
talking about the new
this and the new that
i ask what is happening
before i am next
my shadow on the wall
along with my peers
the fellow pupils

this reality is a
chorus of voices shouting at
each other saying the same things
when none of them
(if they knew the answer)
can voice the truth
as another will agree
and the next
diluting the first point
in an idea known as
disassociation.

my shadow will be on the wall
each square inch
a blot, from each round
which will enter me.

the voice of mine is just another
in a small chorus
stuck in a small room
all yelling amongst
one another.

at least i've accepted
my reality.
the ultimate reality of fear from of death during a school shooting. quickie #2 is not as fun as #1 i apologize.
de Negre Nov 2018
and i can't think of a more beautiful
moment, than when we connected; as
all moments that we shared before that
second, were lost in the dust.

the dust that rose from the road, as the
car drove off. it sailed high and dissolved
in the weight-less autumn air. the afternoon
sun filling the spaces in between the low clouds.

the dust which lay on his dresser, idle,
except when the gusts came through the vents, and
the cat pushed its head between the door and
the wall. or maybe, whenever that car returns.
moments totems sow them own it{S} (ode to friendship)
de Negre Nov 2018
does the tree really fall if no one saw the
cliche intro into the poem where
          its self=awareness is not;
new(s) to anyone except those who

see the strange simbols and mispellyngs
       .
did it really ;exists or swifts in this air
that movement of my poem. ending the re!
sentence right before the line

ends.(viceversaaswell). does art just
            steal from the originality that life
lacks? or do our questions stem from
a        false sense of identity in need           ing to

b
e
o
h

so
deep.
caustic frost bit, shaw slipped!!
de Negre Oct 2018
i would like to                                            (one
awake in a valley                                         day)

so vast, its considered
the Guinness World

Record: Largest
Armory™, with all its

unsheathed blades
of grass.
grass is like my favorite thing ever (but unironically)
de Negre Nov 2018
between each breath, these
words hang
          floating
like balloons in front of their eternal
background. rising up and up
until the pressure is too great. until

the break in your words is too great
and no phrase can pull them together. that
place by the tip of the troposphere, or
whenever you pause and lose track.

sometimes i regret talking too much, and
other times i wish i let go of the string.
shmomo domo promo combo(ver)
de Negre Oct 2018
pause me at my cellar door,
            thwart my plans to descend;
the dog doesn’t recognize the moon in the sky,
            but only sees its simplicity reflecting across the water.

fire that arrow into the dark,
            we fear only what we cannot see.
speak until your lungs are gravel,
            no one can move your tongue but you.
snoteropedopebloatcopefloatyotewoat
de Negre Oct 2018
why would someone write
          with such intense specificity

to the point which
          no one can understand

because of the need for
          greater intelligence than

"the average ******, ignorant homosapien
          who follow vocal orthodoxy

with their imbecilic word choice"
          when the pinpoint is so fine

no one sees the hole
          it has made.
God i hate when people think they are more important than everyone else

— The End —