• Your poetry, dripping imagery, w

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    off the page like my pipe’s smoke
    just before I realized that living wasn’t
    LIFE.
    It wasn’t the tickle-my-thoughts
    feeling rolling in my lungs
    while retching up the want
    to simply [********
    and the pride that wouldn’t let me
    do it sooner.
    I wanted to float like rose petals
    decorating your pen, perfuming the paper
    with olden time’s hopes of candy-filled
    eyes and bursting-open hearts.
    But the bleeding weighed down my feather-self
    as if someone was only chanting,
    “Stiff as a board…”
    Damnit I was!
    I
    **was
    ******solid.
    And I realized
    that that essence I spewed high
    Was.Not.Life.


    Life was my personality’s civil war,
    contradicting itself mid-sentence--
    before the words to form it
    were ever thought. Life
    was drinking down the lovehate
    his presence ached.
    It was the delirious hope that
    tie-dyed daises would suddenly sprout
    the world in glorious harmony for real;
    the knowledge that was a child’s dream.

    ButThatIsLife!

    ****************But
    ********************that
    *************************is
    **********************************************LIFE


    So roll this psychedelic ink on paper
    and tell me how good it feels.