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Eve Wildman Poem
Working in jobs we loath,
buying valuables we do not need.
We have no substance to survive on this,
our souls we can not feed.
A million miles away,
across oceans and cracks.
Exist people that own everything,
everything we lack.
The Mark of Cain,
we have burnt upon ourselves.
Ever plummeting southwards,
our conscious delves.
He collects them in bottles,
our evil ways.
Waiting to release them,
at the end of days.
Copyright © Eve Wildman | Year Posted 2008
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Details |
Eve Wildman Poem
Endless monologues dragging through my head,
I wish I was more interesting with everything I said.
I pray to be better,
I pray to be more.
I wish I could break through this nailed down door.
Schizophrenic.
Is that what this is?
Two people twisted in an endless abyss.
Yet it will get better,
It always does.
I wish I could retain that ecstasy buzz.
Copyright © Eve Wildman | Year Posted 2008
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