poetry critical

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underneath green

the wet leaves above know my secret ache
though I lean against this trunk
like I'm glad it's morning and that the early sun has dimples
and all of that other bullshit
I quietly wish it was still last night
when I sat on the deck
and let clouds of smoke hide me from everyone
it was late
I knew it was finally over
and it was time to let the suffering suffer
time for the throbbing dilapitation
to be alone and conscious of its own evil
while I slept and saw nothing in my dreams
but the day completely blacked out
now though, everything has begun again
the front door has been opened wide
and it seems like this tree won't collapse ontop of me
but the wet leaves no better
I can tell by the way they tremble

14 Jul 12

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it's kind of robert frost-like, in a vague way. i think the problem is that frost wasn't a nature poet, he was an epic writer looking for a hero to write about. using his form to be introspective on the reality of consciousness is going to let you down: you can't think out of the box, if you're thinking inside 'famous poetry' writing.
 — cadmium

ignore the pedophile cadmium / james bauer
 — unknown

Again, not sure what to think yet, I have to think about this.  It's not a simple read.
 — Isabelle5