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Water falling like tears from the face of the boy, dumbfounded out the window he stares,
glassy eyes to the future, cloudy mind in the past, his heart torn into pieces.
Wondering how odd it is for him to be standing alone, in the dark wet night with his eyes telling his soul to the world, hidden under the curtain of rain, he clenches his fists...
And closes his eyes, opened in time, later in darkness, the cold hands of nature gripping at him relent... and he allows himself two little words to the person he loves,
RhymesWhy is every rhyme I see a forced fallacy with no direction?
Rhyming is a tool to be used, just like inflection,
carted to sections in the cells of restrictive form,
dispelled and uninspiring lest they deviate from the norm,
another die to fly or sigh in my despising eye to try
and on and on the rhymes flow forth like an awkward brown sludge,
how old are we that poetry must be read like a children's book?
Alas, but everyone's a child at heart so progress is left to be the product of the one with the greatest imagination and the better toys, fallen from... no, we never fell, humanity's peak is still incoming, we watch and wait for weary water to cleanse our sinful selves.
And what do I receive for suggesting this ruse is childish?
a mouthful of rebuttal from villainous tyrants,
"You can't say that, you'll offend people!"
Sometimes progress is more important than the emotions of bigotry,
and I strive to galvanise the lives of whoever's in my proximity
SuspensionWhat's here, a bridge
suspended from the sky,
by threads of angels past, whose sonorous glows are fading with night.
With every rust filled ring that rains from the bowels of the beast,
the gates of heaven high
it strains its tender tendrils but is bound by chain to Terra,
unable to rise, the suck of the sea, pulling down to the depths.
Weak willed, unfair,
he falls into the spray,
unlike his brothers on high wings, the ropes that tie him to the sky
spark and splinter to fiery below, under the ocean that presses above.
And now, below,
cold flames that eat away
at the mellowed flesh
of a sunken monument
Watery WordsWords are like water, flowing their way from the highest point to the bottom of the fairy tale that wallows in the staring game we call society. Light as air, yet heavy as lead, liquid vocalized syllables can lift or level, rift or settle, drift the bevelled edge of destruction that erodes the cornerstone of corners foreign roads we travel in the stormy show that grovels in the gravel to torment the twinkling tragedies, unless we disperse in the fumes of humid vapour, waters words in wordy waters wading wilfully to winded whispers of wicked wicker baskets in taking of direction towards letters that spill from the mountain to the canyon of sharp jagged paper far below, unless blown away by the wayward winds of standardized insanity, directed blows, humanity in crumbling shackles bequeath the future under the wings of white waters from sky clouds, inception on high ground, corrections abide round the table of taking the tapeworms tapered end to talking the trash into the acrid lesser mor
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