Oppression
the hands of time crept up and lept from subtlety to ***********- from insane to
startlingly
pleasant. take the tone more civilized with pronunciation----- every single
consonant and threat
singly noted devoted to the attachment to a face. with every word comes another
thought--------
it's absurd this notion of opinion- this idea that we have ideas ourselves--------
WHO ARE WE TO
THINK ANYWAY? WE ARE NOT WHAT MOVES THE DAY WE ARE NOT WHAT
GIVES THE SAY
OF NO OR YES WHAT COULD BE BEST OR WHAT SHOULD BE PUT TO- rest
easy, the mind
itself sleeps for nothing, 8 hours prescribed every night, achieve the best if not
the worst will be attained
and what will be left? the ostracized and cast aside the flowers ripped and torn----
----------- i wonder
now and then, what could have been, what could have happened if we let it.
things could be so
beautiful so daintily graceful and delicate with our hands to dance through, our
bodies the stage
for the greatest show that ever was------- that never was. the grass is always
greener on the other side
THEY SAY a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down THEY SAY it was all
deserved and
necessary in the end THEY SAY. well i say it's bullshti a world turned upside
down the round earth
contorted into sharp ends and corners where people and souls are abandoned
to themselves with
guardians who never even took a first glance. it was the day everyone decided
babies didn't need
names anymore, the parents reassured the skeptical I'D KNOW MY CHILD'S
CRY ANYWHERE!
and the next day parents became orphaned. pencils or pens any writing utensil i
reach for when
i learn the anathemas of nature the corrupted ways of society as if the paper itself
will
agree- will stand and see that i am right and they are wrong, the words I KNOW
will come
alive and speak forth for me and everything will be fine one day when everyone
discovers
just how literary they are. but poetry i know goes without saying, writing goes
without reading,
people have better things to do-- they instead bury their paws in dirt (cuz they
didn't know it was
really wet cement) and move years later, realizing their error, and remain stuck in
the vein
they cut. if only things with wings could be the ones that fall, and the things we call
retarded insane crazy beyondhelp could be the ones that fly and find their way
home
without need to ask for directions.
Copyright © Rachel Hart | Year Posted 2007
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