Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
My Twentieth Year - 5. wicked abstractions
Poem No. 12
Moonless midnight
and memories
Phantoms in flight
difficult to keep in solidity
Too many memories
to remember
Such wicked abstractions
to which I have no identity
Poem No. 13
Prelude:
I hate to be alive,
how more simply can I say it.
I have nothing for to strive,
no happiness in which to simply sit
What possible gifts do I have to give,
when I take space and do nothing but stare
So I ask, for what reason do I live,
to cease such a life, do I think to dare
My problem with that, is this,
the world is so damn beautiful, why did God
Put a scourge like human kindness
on the planet to muck and mess up the sod.
All I know is that:
I hate to be alive,
how more simply can I say it?
Poem:
The blood rushing from my arms
making me impure by its super purity
rushing until perfect bliss be found.
- 5
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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