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i thought i'd share this with GD as well as Freestyle. i've been mulling over the incident for a few days now and thought i needed to hash out my anger in a creative way. i'm a poet by nature...thanks in advance for reading.
the room is a dark skull leaving no light for thoughts, the closest an inanimate thing could come to being a mood--dark. easily jading the moral fingers of those young and old into actions that leave no breaths for consequence; here they stand, on the shoulders of giant ghosts, parents across the street, underground, out of sight and mind. in this room dreams are created on the cusp of lust and opportunity, where innocence is lost, a baby doll with no arms or legs and one closed eye.
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consent is a thin line that does not precede age. a little girl opens her mouth, knees bent on the cold floor of malcontent, boys viewing manhood as a curled lip quivering around their flaccid understanding, a loss of erection an invitation to guilt.
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the witness: dilated pupils scan the gathering...she's done it before with more or less cohorts, surely nothing is wrong, "everyone is doing it"
how quickly false pretense can become truth, how fierce misconception can be perceived as being "all good". the accomplice is not always as clever as movies would have us think, the world is never as simple as make believe.
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the boyfriend and the supervision: "it ain't no fun if my homies can't have none" this ain't no dog- pound-gimme-dap-i-got-hoes-for-days party. there is no music to two-step to, no revolving lights. the ratio is 20:1 and one could say their is a parental chaperone, but he has a fifth of hennessy in his hand, and stills of pornography dotting his mind, a crossword puzzle unfinished. been six years since he came and went...to him, 11 is old enough, may even be too old...maybe he can only count to ten.
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sometimes, i find it hard to come to terms with the world in which i live. it's times like these my whole existence can feel as an out of body experience would--i walked pass a seven-year-old boy speaking of "pussy" this morning, a word i sparingly say at 24.
where responsibility should live, is a dead dog in a 40-year-old man's body. i damn him in the name of the father he could never be, in the name of the son he will never have, in the name of the holy ghost that could never save him from who he is, and shall always be.
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myself is sculptor of your body’s idiom: the musician of your wrists; the poet who is afraid only to mistranslate a rhythm in your hair... -E.E. Cummings
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