sunnuntai 12. helmikuuta 2017


 You cross me to hang
high place and blood
discoloring tears
taste bitter.
Why does it have to be so
can not find a lonely martyr
the way to paradise.
I live my life of its own spectacle,
and the head of it to the inside of the fool
distributed. Where are those parts of the
Gone With the Wind Sharlett, and
dancing ballerina of the Imperial
I do not need to imitate
Organ grinder monkey, inside
always always breed of its own
remarkable rebellion.
It's semi-famous musician
bitter with my charisma in front of me
It is no longer her face book
friends of show. He removed me
friends nailed to the cross
named among the poor poet.
A friend what you put in the tray
me stubborn fellow?
I write a poem I icy
I refuse compartment holy mediocrity
I take the ankle shackles a slave.
I do not lick it as soon as the air
next to my mouth drops, I will not bow to
the authority which the shackles of their own ankles
on his journey.
My writer's plate below
it is another me tight Director,
which sits tightly Association
cash on top of the chest. I know myself
Patron of the world's children as well as mothers
sometimes it backfires me,
and perhaps it is death to me.

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