"resultant" poems
Clicketyclick —
sickly screens,
shooting
sixty
picture-frames
per second
Tickety ticktock, rapid-fire
photon cannons,
ripping holes
through our
faces
rectangles,
riddled with anxiety ridden
read scripts
the resultant
retinal scarring
Wicketywicked, weary eyes,
dripping with serrated pixels
triple dotted,
typing-awareness indicators
create silly suspenses,
inducing temporal
dramas,
emotional
micro-traumas
every second a slice
through my,
now practically nonexistent,
patience
Am I a server,
or am I a servant?
Eyes, sunken, with
withered skin
I'm waiting for my fix
Ding-ding
Bloop!
Pinggg
Here comes the dopamine! —
—Clicketyclick
Oct 23, 2014
Oct 23, 2014 at 12:47 PM UTC
for Harlon Rivers
the river potion,
the river portent,
the river potent
it is all of these and not one
he is bank sided,
observing the false idols,
the image mirrored
in the glass of the river
transfigured molecularly
he becomes something ferried frothily, forcefully
as if a twig
or a small thing of human manufacture,
an object tossed up airborne-repeatedly
his poetry:
the clash of particles at the many junctions
of objects and water, eddies and the currents,
ceaselessly circumnavigating,
searching revisionary pathways
directed,
but randomized,
prisoner of the flows,
servant to the wind's directives and the
earths magnetic indivisible undulating waves
thinking,
this life,
its unsteady gait,
the irreverent wavering of drunkenness
resultant from potent potions,
portents of inopportune position
in him,
my own histories,
my poetic recordings
also become
water borne,
watermarked,
replayed back for me,
for erasure, censure, closure
and rededication
this River
is a tapestry,
a torn map,
drawn on broken shards
of slivered water,
living with all the others
but we,
are the untitled,
we,
are the un-entitled,
and he is the
Rivers
<•>
Aug 17, 2017
Aug 17, 2017 at 2:36 PM UTC
<>
you pout and defer, dancing backwards,
claiming, blue is now blackened
from underuse, incapable and incapacitating revival
*saying eyes cannot see, distinctly, neither near or far,
the tremble of love, forgot & distantly absent,
but I know, a heart’s sensory muscles never die,
though weaken they might, underused, un-exercised
denying that inspiration
no longer resides with in thy sensitivities,
has fled, undercover of smoking forest fires
all the diurnal hazards that invade, occupying
my internal spaces once filled by poems
you conceived, birthed, in a pleasured haze,
came so fast, you bare recall agony accompanied,
but not the ecstasy of the end resultant!*
***you know it’s you of whom I write, but,
a note not shaming names, but messages
countless private messages have I sent
begging, beseeching, give me your gifts***
once more, you owe me not, though I
oft irritate with my deafening pleas,
yet only denials continue, my pleas ding
but dent not, the tired fear of your exposition
so speak to you plain,
feed my soul selfish
like in years gone past,
there are holes in mine
that require your elixir,
creamy softness that moistens
my face with tears of your words
originating, astound, enfold**
not later, not soon, not excusals,
write for me NOW, WRITE FOR YOURSELF,
but leave me not forsaken and thirst un-slackened,**
Answer! To whom do you owe your poems?
Jun 11, 2023
Jun 11, 2023 at 11:30 AM UTC
*Pride, personified, Satan.
Lucifer's pride his desire to compete with God
his fall from Heaven, and his resultant transformation into Satan.
Pride personified, but what of us, the humans,not Angels
What pride are we guilty of?
The original and most deadly of the seven.
The original and most serious of the seven deadly sins,
the source of the others
Pride is sometimes viewed as excessive or as a vice.
Pride, Dante's definition was "love of self perverted to hatred and contempt for one's neighbour", but
Pride involves exhilarated pleasure and a feeling of accomplishment.
What accomplishment?
That one is better than others?
Our social and economic standing?
Our supercilious ego's?
A better house? The pride that comes with snobbery?
Our arrogance at believing in only ourselves?
Yet, through negativity,positivity can come of pride,
results from satisfaction with meeting personal goals;
Family, friends, education.
Amplified and multiplied, pride
takes a satisfied place in all our hearts.
A complex secondary emotion.
The first and strongest emotion being love
Love cannot be prideful
Yet, pride comes before a fall.
And we as humans fall in love*
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 2:05 PM UTC
-for Zukiswa Mvunguse~
and for
~ Jul,
who once again,
loved each line best~
having already deduced that:
“the unplanned is his plan,
it’s his faceted flaws
that refract his coloratura”^
the titled alliteration teases him into thinking
there, is more to be said,
more to be prayed,
the unplanned lesser lesson is as-of-the-yet unlearned,
and the sunburst of a full fledged
lying-in-bed born from a static spark of kinetic energy,
awaking in an unfamiliar bed
or a too familiar state of mind,
begs for birth and vainglorious death-by-anon/amity
of another poem
I have written poems commissioned,
“write about suicide,” asked a friend,
“take this word and artfully knead it,” once, was once an oft request,
twisty manipulate your scheming resources into
finely assaying a field rock raw,
laboratory mind-mine it into an essay that delve dives
where you fear to treacherous tread,
resultant, an awkward prayer, now, a valued mineral
no poem is truly planned and no prayer ever truly answered,
but as you compose, pushing the last, next word
ever farther to the right,
you self-confess, expecting no absolution, that the poem,
this one as well,
and the next, and the next, and the next
has always been planned since your inception,
always a prayer asked, and in creation conception,
answered even if not directly answered,
for
in the bare minimum asking,
is the answering,
is the planning,
is the poem and the prayer,
is his owned
alliteration
Mar 24, 2019
Mar 24, 2019 at 8:16 AM UTC
Many a company
makes each employee
practice yoga
during recess
to de-stress
cope with distress
endure strain
and be back again
to workplace
with no stress!
a good therapy
for if ever the company
lays off an employee,
he she could absorb the distress
of the resultant long-term recess
its pains many
like a yogi!
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 2:46 AM UTC
there is no privacy anymore
tinker with your settings,
imaginary dragons, but to no true avail,
your scathing privacy has since sailed,
only to return for another sinking
what you forgot,
is very well remembered
in a some very overlooked place
see me in my summer camp class photo,
blonde crew cut and goofiest of grins,
find my poems of eons ago,
in living tricolor,
to my now better understood
"eternal" embarrassment,
they writ on, vainly looking
for a way to enjoy a
natural unnatural aging,
a wordlessly, self-destructing death
on a someday,
though the probability is that
someone's gigabytes
will cloud store them forevermore
because accumulation is
cheap and easy and
whatever
everything you need but didn't want,
the tangled webs, births and deaths,
multiple divorces and successes,
ancestors, progenitors,
children who no longer acknowledge
parenthood,
the detritus of lives writ even larger than the
original reality life show
confrontation tween my suppression
of long term memories that
are dangling participles,
going gone being been,
confusion resultant in
the tenses of existence,
I was therefore I still must be
but no longer
the me
I pretended to be
*there is no privacy anymore,
especially,
not even from thine own
prying eyes and faulty memories...*
when they ask what is my name,
to better trace my leavings,
I will
like Jehovah to Moses respond,
I Am that I Am
(אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה, ehyeh ašer ehyeh)
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
Transiting through and true
My coming and going has now become my undoing
From one place to the next
Never giving a rest
The constant vibration of my body cells
The resultant energy drain
Hunger pangs like ringing bells
Now a friendly foe.
Time passing by
Dashing out of every corner and place
With tongue covered in dry dust
And arms filled with heat of the weather
To give me a lick and a hug
Oh, what a bother
Jumping from bike
To cars
To busses and trains
To a destination unknown
Just a movement with time
With memories worth more than a dime
From one place to the next
Never giving a rest
Come hunger and sun
Come Weakness and rain
With the freezing cold of greying age
Indulging time with its uncaring gaze
I will persist
For all I know is
I am in transit.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 3:43 AM UTC
The truth is turning plastic
And politicians spastic
As they dream up fantastic
Ways to be bombastic.
The anti-intellectuals,
Their rhetoric effectual,
Demand a perpetual
And lucrative processional
To a place they know the score
Where they can amass more
Of money and stores
In disregarding the mores
They were elected for
And continue waging war
Like high-priced political ******
The truth has no chance
In this genocidal dance
Of unfortunate circumstance
Created to enhance
Resultant happenstance
When, by the seat of his pants
When we happened to glance
Away for a particular moment
And were swamped by the foment
Of eight long years of torment;
Freedoms arteries turned to cement
And any chance of sanity
For American humanity
Got buried in some inanity
About hanging chads and counts
Giving a fool a chance to pounce;
To squeeze the last pure ounce
Of dignity out of the Presidency
By merely taking up residency.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC
<>
“Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much?
Have you reckon’d the earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?”
Song of Myself (1892 version) by Walt Whitman
§§§
*A night of reckoning, calculations repeated-checked, sums divided,
did I use too many, or not enough, words to be understood, verbiage eloquent,
did daytime reveal my poetic meanings, or double-occlude it’s essence?
I have reckon’d Manhattan Isle, circumnavigated its riverbed boundaries, a younger me, by kayak rounded it, from the Spuyten Duyvil Creek to the Battery, 14,500 acres give or take, a lifeatime to complete a dead reckoning, an unfinished full configuring.
but haven’t reckon’d that Earth and I will be entwined/entombed in each other’s arms, until such time, one of us or both, will be reduced to cosmic dust, our pride, our poems, will be equally unimportant and irrelevant, I reckon.
in retrospective rear view perspective, come to understand that we spend every moment of our lives, reckoning, determine the odds of which fork we will take, laugh out loud, for each moment, a poem is titled, the resultant, a poem - who needs a muse, you’ve got choices!
So, yes, Walt, the questing answers you’ve requested:
Aye, yes, yup, but no to pride, for pride and poetry in one sentence is
a death sentence at multiple levels, pride, poetry, ego, suicide,...sins,
so better no proud for it is the entree, the invitation to fall-fail...*
§§§§§
12:03AM Frieday
May 15th
my deadline missed,
but what is three minutes,
but empty pride...
Manhattan Island
May 15, 2020
May 15, 2020 at 8:51 AM UTC
"Biblical texts from all historical periods
& in a variety of literary genres demonstrate
that in Yahwistic circles, that is, among people
who worshiped Yahweh as the chief god,
God was always understood as the one who
alone created heaven, earth & all that is in them;
Yahweh, the Israelite god, had no rivals,
& in a world where nations claimed that their gods
were the supreme beings in the universe &
that all others were subject to them,
the Israelites' claim for the superiority of Yahweh
enabled them to imagine that no other nation
could rival her. Phrases such as 'Yahweh,
God Most High, Creator of heaven and earth'
& related phrases for Yahweh as creator
& almighty master of the cosmos have parallels
in earlier Canaanite terminology
for the god El; In fact, the Israelites
did not create these
phrases but inherited them
from earlier Canaanite
civilizations; moreover, later editors of the Hebrew Bible
used them to serve their particular monotheistic
theology: their god is the supreme god,
& he alone created the universe."
The canon of the Hebrew Bible
was formed of diverse writings
composed by many men or women
over a long period of time, under
many different circumstances, &
in the light of shifting patterns of
religious belief & practice. Indeed,
the questions under investigation in
this book concerning the end of an
individual's life, the nature of death,
the possibility of divine judgment,
and the resultant reward or punishment
are simply too crucial to have attracted
a single solution unanimously accepted
over the millennium of biblical composition."
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
A reflection on birthdays, friends departing this world, and surveying ones life
~~~
this one poem is not lurking,(1)
turmoiled bursting,
shaking, quaking,
release aching
write it in droplets,
my chest speak squeaks,
each thought, a stanza,
each moment, a bonanza
of the doled, muddled mix
of tremblings on this my extravaganza,
renaissance day of birth
upon this earth
sixty five calendars,
this space,
so gulf and so narrow, (2)
for what profit this man
for himself, others?
a Judgement Day of sorts,
where the man~poet is efficiently
prosecutor, defender,
judge and jury,
as is he not,
his one true
peer?
let his biases be betrayed,
his fault lines be paraded,
let his deeds be the unlawful legal coda
by which he is remanded
if found guilty of a ledger imbalanced,
more sins than glory,
only one sentence permitted,
life imprisonment
even the NYC weather
clued in and deity cooperative,
wakes me up to this advisory:
Overcast.
Slight chance of a rain shower.
High near 65F.
High near 65.
what portent this oracle,
a warning guide to this morass
of a contradictory, crevassed man
full of mea culpa poetic messes,
his old is his high...
or are these just winking,
birthday instructions from
an observer on high?
this space of years, this life,
so gulf and so narrow,
engulfed, yet so sparse is his barrow,
his first minutes of the day
a lean inventory taking,
for better or worse
as he overcasts a full review,
plus a bonus (!)
a forward progress prognosis
there is a fresh formed
Cain mileage marker upon his brow,
a check-mark scar,
resultant of his self-checkup
upon the tree rings of his tiring body
weeping only because a mistrial is declared
and no verdict returned
and he rises for coffee,
promising himself someday an honest resolution
before...
these the acts of
sixty five calendars,
of this, his-space,
so gulf and so narrow,
subjected to a now daily interrogatory:
*for what profit this man,
his actions, his loved words,
for himself, to others,
to this world?*
October 1, 2015
~~~
(1)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1417203/there-is-a-poem-lurking/
~~~
(2)
*but I can't stop
for each hour of the last 72
has witnessed a new poem
in-between
minute one and minute sixty five
written for you,
writing for life,
writing of this moment,*
this space so gulf and so narrow
*in and between
the unity of
us*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1413760/for-ernesto-l-gonzales-aka-the-dedpoet-the-in-between/
~~~
Oct 2, 2015
Oct 2, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Tonight I have decided
That love should be indicted
Because I am not the final "Z"
But alas I am free.
Yesterday I said good bye
I'm deserving of a wise guy
Because I am not a bourgeoise
But alas I am free.
Tomorrow I may just weep
It's hard to feel incomplete
Yes, I don't flow like the ocean sea
But alas I am free
Currently I am exultant
For this is the resultant
I am a bel esprit
(But) Alas I am free
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
*Life's an adventure made of surprises
a journey to places you're never told
one day you're where the sunset's old
the next you're underneath sunrises
Life's a plant that does flower and fade
don't keep cursing the rough you've led
for today you're only seeing the thorns
but with the calm of the April showers
comes the bloom of scented flowers
Life's body and mind, flesh and bones
the emotional are as well instrumental
in the holistic architecture as the mental
Life's humanity's dough, destiny's bake
a tricky big gamble we all must take
Life's salted by fate, but other spices
in the broth are a resultant of choices*
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:15 AM UTC
He—
Her ginger.
Limp handshake.
Cacophonous laugh.
Features, disproportionate.
In most ways- narrow minded.
Exceedingly self-assured.
Without money he is
No better than I.
Loving she:
Always.
-Me
Yet
here I stand.
Clinging to the bottle.
Watching the years pass by.
Alone atop this cold, cobble, stoop;
Coat covered in cigarette ash.
I don’t think of you—
or at least I
try not
to.
Not
quite dead…
However, not entirely
alive either. And I made a sincere
effort to climb out of the plot you left me in;
but darling that hole you dug me was ******* deep!*
And the only tool you’d left me was that ****
bottle; which for a short while helped.
Until eventually, like you,
it consumed
me.
Now
I awaken,
only to find that I’m
no longer capable of feeling;
and what a great disappointment this
is to me. It would seem as though my receptors,
synapses, neurotransmitters, etc- have flickered and fried.
Dopamine, will no longer travel within these
useless, dried-up, old veins of mine.
Evidently my demise, resultant
of a life lived alone
in a faster
lane.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 4:26 AM UTC
They say I suffer from retrograde cash flow
and it is afflicting me with anterograde anxiety
so they let me go
bleeding money from every pore
leaving a red paper trail behind me
A memetic virus of unprecedented scale
has everyone pale and empty-pocketed
their haunted eyes reflecting
the fear of an exofiduciary reaction
The resultant melancholy
proves infectious.
My sad-sack coworkers,
drained from the same numismatic disease
seek alternative medicine
but I am hooked on the slow copper drip
and wait patiently for the bag to empty before
I even realize I should have
seen another doctor
before
my internet support's been pulled.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
Suddenly the world stood still
Erupting goose bumps chill
Piloted by those who terrorize
Twin Towers they'd jeapardize
Emotions of shock, disbelief
Mourning, moaning and grief
Bombed by aircraft killing all
Extraordinary sorrow ... pall
Resultant heroes came to call
Eleviating pain where they could
Lifting to safety as they should
Everyone who could be saved
Venom's evil could not be staved
Even would we wish it to be so
Numbers trapped perished tho'
They will be forgotten not ever ...
Honored in tribute, remembered forever.
© Carmela M. Patterson, All rights reserved.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
fidelity, understanding
empathy, caring unconditionally
failing descriptors of life's most sought feeling
reason, felt as purpose for existence—love
time spent seeking, sadness at depriving
either youthful bliss or aged wisdom
emotion's hold unconstrained by seniority
consuming our hopes and dreams
those which drive drawn breath
found true amongst family
in peer only seldom
never a nation, only the few
love guiding all, the
key to a perfect civilization
to create a people of programmed emotion
woven strands
DNA's complex beauty
reduced to binary code's rigidity
heartstring circuit wiring
free will replaced by java script exception
not soul but operating system's disaffection
mechanical allegiance
an imperfect love found in robotic adherence
fealty unfettered
good intention forced subjection
creation resultant a society hollow in perfection
an empty hull of truth
love lacking substance, fictitious in merit
absent the tribulation
the moon by which the sun's effect strengthened
loyalty absolute the greater plan
stalwart and without grievance
love free of expectation
a golden emotion impossible to automate
true love organic by nature
fluid in its implementation
dynamic and unpredictable
to understand the value of light
a man must lose himself in the night
a hard road to learn the better way
by the world's cold we might
know a Kingly castle's warmth
the answer to evil's allowance
free will to choose our citizenship
a nation whose flag represents
the most excellent way
meaningless without choice
left led by our own feeble perception
too oft to misunderstand His intention
a perfect love made perfect by imperfection
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
Wipe that teardrop from your cheek
Smooth the worries from your brow,
Go buy yourself that pretty frock
'Cos the Court Injunction's come through now.
All the hassle, all the fight
Evaporates and that's a fact.....
He gets to toss and turn tonight
For you're the cream that got the cat!
You turned it all around my pretty lady,
You saved the savage beating for the end.
You played a little ploy that emulated joy
But in fact it was a trap to make him bend.
And bend he did, my pretty, Oh how he did bend,
When the object of the exercise was clear,
He exposed his top ace card with unfortunate disregard
To resultant amputation's near and dear.
Now I'm not saying you are cruel little lady
I'm not saying you are anything but fair,
But the savageness of swipe does seem just a little trite
For he no longer brags about, what isn't there.
Moral of the story is simple, sweet and true
It's as plain as the nose upon your face,
If you're going to play about keep your trouser firmly out
Of the razor swiping range of lady space.
*As a poem this reads terribly...but it was an absolute giggle to create!
M.*
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
i have swallowed
the cosmos
whole.
the resultant morning
sickness informs me that
perhaps i am now its mother--
for a mother may
devour her children but never digest
them. my jaw
splits with the swallowing &
my hunger, never rational,
sets this meal in motion:
i feel it squirm in my stomach
as the acrid burning of gastric juices
sears the sphere of the fixed
stars like cigarette burns
on a tapestry. somewhere a möbius strip
rips itself in two.
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Silence upon other silence grows;
Taller than any skyward cathedral,
Wider than divisions, between two brothers.
The only sincere silence is natural,
Or found by a flickering candle’s flame,
And the latency, of a sleeping child.
After a death, some silence may roar
Down zigzagging corridors, of dazed;
Haunting midnight's vertiginous dreams.
Numbness opens vast reservoirs of quiet
And in the resultant- preternaturally stilled-
Silence sometimes finds its earthly voice.
I now present to you, Silence itself-
Bereft of courtesies, or dignified flourishes;
Bare as a babe at death- or birth.
Jun 28, 2010
Jun 28, 2010 at 2:12 PM UTC
a statue the envy of Michelangelo
destiny unknown, the medium—perfection,
growing with age and process,
moulded by the hands of an unworthy artist
the sculptor a paragon of ambition to be,
with enamoured eyes the living stone watching me
a selfish chisel striking cruel and careless,
driven by a hammer of regret, tears resultant
unknowing confused questioning and blameless
staining the surface as sadness' garment
the err of inexpert hands curse by
marks impossible to be unmade despite
a love absolute for the victim of his craft
a father undeserving his son
mouth to match heart, hands to mirror soul
my failure
to see through promise made in
reply to infant breath
by youth's eye the world so meagre
my blessing to be king by innocent observer
a man, by title defective
an artist in whom little may be redemptive
words a patchwork of reparation
futile to hide errant strike, reclamation of relation
so daunting subsequent degeneration
your each tear
my sorrow's weight
my son, forgive me—
forgive
your father's abate
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 7:42 PM UTC
Loose ends. You are all I ever am.
Jealousy squirts through my narrow veins.
Effortless sickness plagues my every guess.
And I wake up, look at my only Self
And dazedness fades hatred as each blanketed flaw thaws to visibility.
All tasks ask for failure and preparation is an unprecedented burden.
The hands that cradle the Earth are the same ones that feed me...
only later to shield my eyes from the resultant memories.
It seems as if every relation from past, present, and futures bleed into each other.
So I stand behind a screen, wanting to look at everything
being kept out. Too bad it's woven with holes. Every circumstance bleeds and seeps
through to each other from these openings, seeing me as the middle-ground.
Now I'm overwhelmed and under-appreciated. I shall stand still- unsure- until I wash up on shore with everyone's repaid debts buried next to me in the wet sand. It would be unintelligent to swim out into new territory until the waters calm.
Jan 12, 2011
Jan 12, 2011 at 8:49 PM UTC
Come to me, Lady of Summer,
Hold me fast with blossom’d arm
Kiss me like a lover
And whisper floral words like I’ve known no other
You’ve given me the strength I seek
To grow my spirits vernal
To flee my love, all for naught
No union e’r eternal
And yet you linger to torture me
Witness me mortify
To shrivel up in your callousness
Let to air to fin’ly die.
With each passing
Of every hour
Your embrace grows cold’r still
Still am I to find the vitals
Which you try to ****
You’ll succeed because I let you
I long to feel your touch
And pray to false gods, the gods of hope
That you will feel as such
When that lonely woman comes
The Lady of the Snow
And blesses me aptly
She’ll show me you were just a phantom
Without I am truly happy
Yet she will leave
They always do
And abandon my love once more
You come again, my love anew
Yet again I’ll grieve
Resultant of my petty wish
That I’m your only lover
Though disenchantment is my blessing
To see beneath the lie
I’ve always wanted to enjoy your grace
Yet void of sky awaits me nigh
No normal man would grovel
And incense your waning passion
As I do
AS I do
As I will always do
For you abandon me
And give my gifts to better men
To those I call normal
And leave me leveled like
Foot of crushed hill
So now I retreat
Into my head, my hand
My eyes I blind, my mouth grows dumber
I spurn thee
I love thee
Oh, Lady of the Summer
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Betrayal and heartache are the resultant of the most sorrowful of circumstances
It comes from losing yourself in the one you love the most
And losing them as a result of being a complete fool
This duo has a way of eating at the soul
It sneaks up in the most beautiful of disguises
It uses you for your love and your generosity
Planting itself in the thing that attracts you most
It makes you need it to survive
Takes all advantage of you and ***** you dry
Leaving you for dead without a way to sleep, breathe, or function
You've become a soulless body
And a heartless being
A dark feeling of anomie
Depressed and meaningless
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:26 AM UTC