348 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
348 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
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F U C K E D U P C O L L E G E K I D S
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- t h e p o e t r y v e n t u r e -
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poets are often souls of the tortured variety.
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the tortured soul is in touch with pieces of
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himself that most people are not even aware of
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until they read that one line or phrase that
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reminds them of the dark places that they seek
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to hide or ignore. often, the poet is a loner,
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or only seeks the company of others similarly
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tortured - an irony, for much of the genius in
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poetry lies in the universality of the human
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experience.
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PURSUING MOODS
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To Tracey Hilkey
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i hear footsteps following
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me
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or maybe i'm following them
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but in the early morning,
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when everything is
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quiet
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and it seems no one is around,
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there's enough aroused to scare
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me
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into believing it's afternoon
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and i should be
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somewhere else, doing things
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normal
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people would do in the later
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stages of a day, but instead
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i find myself keeping watch
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on a world that won't sleep
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alone
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because in the flickering
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night sky, this planet makes
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love
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with various massive bodies
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that float in its atmosphere
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and still, and still i
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listen
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for those footsteps to remind
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me
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that i cannot escape
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from being followed
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and i cannot stop following
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someone
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although i do not see anyone
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there's no touch, no voice
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and there's just a sound
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trying to tell me something
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about this path i take, about
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myself
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and how it cannot be sane
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to wander blindly behind
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invisible footsteps or realize
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footsteps
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are walking hand in hand
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with my tracks, with my
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frustration
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that swells in my feet,
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that lingers in my face,
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that travels through my
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tunnels
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to seek that shimmering light
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but i cannot
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cut
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myself to let blood force
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out my indelible hatred,
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to taste an inner freedom
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that gropes for an opportunity
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to feel like a normal shadow
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walking
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in front of the pack, not behind
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where footsteps rattle the staircase
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and i am confident, in rare form, to
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shout
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for someone to step forward,
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reveal
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that he is that constant in my life,
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this imaginary friends i've spoken with
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since i was seven, since i
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fell
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into desperate hallways inside
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school buildings that helped trap
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myself
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within my invisible cosmos,
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where words on paper gave me
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shelter
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gave me something to savor
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when underestimated forces
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swallowed
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me whole, to digest me inside
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their stomach tract where i found
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myself
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surrounded by people without faces,
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without voices, without any markings to
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distinguish
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one person's fears from another's
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but we felt safe, we could share
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feelings
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with just words written down
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and when we finish this digestive
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process
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we can, i can again hear footsteps
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made by an imaginary friend
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or some wingless guardian
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angel
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that can comfort only through
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telepathic means, that motivates
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through photosynthesis, needing
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nothing
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but someone to believe in them
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and i believe in footsteps that guide
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me
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to somewhere that i can feel
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secure with my voice, my face
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and with those scars only
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i
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can see on the membranes inside
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and i'll secure faith in what
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spirituality
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rests, or works, in my poems
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because that's where my happiness
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waits
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for me to take control and forget
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about footsteps that lead, footsteps
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that follow me endless journey
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nowhere
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because the best footsteps
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are those i strategically,
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those i confidently place for
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others
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to examine how i paced myself
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in trying to deal with everyone's
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footsteps
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Indiana Poet April 2, 1998
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tears run down my face,
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but now even that is just a fantasy,
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made callused from the inside,
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my own stupidity burns my soul.
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outside the skin is still tender,
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but I forget and put it too close to the blade,
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getting cut again, but nothing like my inner scars,
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and the skin becomes harder.
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now even immortal gods and love can't make me feel,
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no one hurts me but me,
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no one makes me happy but me,
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no one loves me but me.
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with all this callousness I can finally get closer to what i want,
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I can be who I am not, but who they want me to be,
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my soul can finally be sold,
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now being ripped from my body, causing no pain.
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happiness from about,
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others making me happy, finally friends,
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finally hope,
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maybe some day even love.
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an offhand comment, a slip this hollow shell shouldn't make,
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the others see what makes the blood pump through my veins,
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they see past all the callused skin,
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they see into what is left of my soul.
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they all cringe in hatred, not understanding what they are seeing,
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I try to explain, to help them understand,
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but how can they when I don't either,
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all I know is that it is real, and it is me.
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they run, all it took was a second,
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left standing alone again,
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they crack in my skin leaving an open wound,
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must wait, only time, before it will heal.
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I stare at the wound, hurting me as much as it hurts them,
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none will accept it, my blood too red,
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from the crack comes what I hadn't felt for so long,
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the tears finally run down my face.
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Dactrius
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meaning in art
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static depression, the start.
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my brush of anguish
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resounding splendor manifests before me
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the cry of hope amidst the repressed
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shackles of fury cage their power
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null hope, a wondering glimpse
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taste the sight or smell the aura
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square one, am I done?
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mea culpa 12-16-97
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Childs Eyes
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Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
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can you see the innocence?
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the desire to live
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Look again into the child's eyes
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once reality sinks in...
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Do you ever wonder
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where it all went?
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The stained glass illusions.
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The dreams of catching rainbows.
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A strong harsh wind
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had silenced his internal flame
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forever
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Vengeance and fear thrives deep
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beneath the scars he bears
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All hope vanquished
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powerless, frightened eyes
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pleading for your mercy
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The longer his gaze lingered,
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The more rivers flowed,
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reaching the ocean of your soul,
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The harder the impact
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of your callous blows.
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Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
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and wonder........
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When the angelic blue turned icy?
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Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
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and wonder..............
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Can I ever be forgiven?
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Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
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and wonder.............
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Will he really pull the trigger?
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Did you ever stare into a child's eyes?
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and wonder.
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Bluerose
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Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
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my surveillance of you has turned too caring,
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with permission may I move forward and hold you,
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a melting memoir relaxed for eternity,
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discreet in passion you take me behind shadows,
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a harmless secret of tempting desire.
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Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
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my moment with you has turned too erotic,
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now delicacy demands we part for a while,
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to cryptic realms we share the darkness,
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your echo of desire is drawing me closer,
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alone we are to emit are emotions.
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Hello dark eyes of shady suspicion,
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my time with you has turned to love,
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rowing through oceans of stormy emotions,
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I forever feel your breathe upon my body,
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inside of me you are I confess this love,
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together forever I will please your lust.
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Puncture
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Defy the manner in which all is known
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Not knowing the history, nor asking.
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Future of the present is here now.
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Deem who to be worth of such,
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and all shatters at your touch.
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Not knowing does such.
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Capture the memories, black and white
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single snapshot in a mind gone blank.
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Past is no longer in search of the present.
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Torture your memory to remember,
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such things should have been long forgotten.
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Leave now, to only reach the "to be".
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Toss away all hopes and dreams,
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do not claim to be a god.
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The power is gone, and the sight is lost.
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-Kamira March 20, 1998
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E D I T O R S: jericho@dim.com & demonika@dim.com
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to receive new issues via e-mail, send mail to
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send a list of missing issues and they will be sent.
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A V A I L A B I L I T Y:
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AnonFTP: FTP.DIMENSIONAL.COM/users/jericho/FUCK/POETRY
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WWW: http://www.dimensional.com/~jericho
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(c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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F O U N D E D: October 30, 1997
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