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underneath green
OCTOGENARIAN

the wet leaves above know my secret ache
 1
though I lean against this trunk
 2
like I'm glad it's morning and that the early sun has dimples
 3
and all of that other bullshit
 4
 
 
I quietly wish it was still last night
 5
when I sat on the deck
 6
and let clouds of smoke hide me from everyone
 7
it was late
 8
I knew it was finally over
 9
and it was time to let the suffering suffer
 10
time for the throbbing dilapitation
 11
to be alone and conscious of its own evil
 12
while I slept and saw nothing in my dreams
 13
but the day completely blacked out
 14
 
 
now though, everything has begun again
 15
the front door has been opened wide
 16
and it seems like this tree won't collapse ontop of me
 17
but the wet leaves no better
 18
I can tell by the way they tremble
 19

14 Jul 12


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comments?
 — OCTOGENARIAN

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

thanks
 — OCTOGENARIAN

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