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๐—ช๐—ผ๐—ฟ๐—ฑ๐˜€ ๐—œ ๐—ก๐—ฒ๐˜ƒ๐—ฒ๐—ฟ ๐—ง๐—ฒ๐—น๐—น

๐“๐ก๐ข๐ฌ ๐š๐›๐จ๐ฎ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ๐จ๐ง ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ˆ ๐Œ๐ž๐ญ ๐ข๐ง ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ž.ย 

๐’๐จ ๐ก๐ž๐ซ๐ž ๐ข๐ญ ๐ ๐จ๐ž๐ฌ.

๐…๐จ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ซ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ง ๐Ÿ‘ ๐ฒ๐ž๐š๐ซ๐ฌ

๐“๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ข ๐ž๐ฑ๐ข๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ก๐ž๐ซ๐ž ๐ข๐ง ๐จ๐ง๐ฅ๐ข๐ง๐ž

๐ˆ ๐ก๐š๐ฏ๐ž ๐ฌ๐จ ๐ฆ๐š๐ง๐ฒ ๐ฉ๐ž๐จ๐ฉ๐ฅ๐ž

๐“๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐ˆ ๐ฆ๐ž๐ž๐ญ ๐ž๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ๐๐š๐ฒ

๐๐ฎ๐ญ ๐จ๐ง๐ž ๐ฎ๐ง๐ž๐ฑ๐ฉ๐ž๐œ๐ญ๐ž๐ ๐ฆ๐จ๐ฆ๐ž๐ง๐ญ

๐ˆ ๐ฆ๐ž๐ž๐ญ ๐š ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐š๐งย 

๐“๐ก๐š๐ญ ๐œ๐š๐ฎ๐ ๐ก๐ญ ๐ฆ๐ฒ ๐š๐ญ๐ญ๐ž๐ง๐ญ๐ข๐จ๐ง

ย 

๐’๐ก๐ž'๐ฌ ๐š ๐ง๐ž๐ฐ ๐ฉ๐ž๐ซ๐ฌ๐จ๐ง ๐Ÿ๐จ๐ซ ๐ฆ๐ž

๐‚๐š๐ฎ๐ฌ๐ž ๐ญ๐ก๐š๐ญ'๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ž ๐Ÿ๐ข๐ซ๐ฌ๐ญ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐žย 

๐ˆ ๐ˆ๐ง๐œ๐จ๐ฎ๐ง๐ญ๐ž๐ซ ๐š ๐ฐ๐จ๐ฆ๐š๐ง ๐ฅ๐ข๐ค๐ž ๐ก๐ž๐ซ

๐‡๐ž๐ซ ๐ฏ๐จ๐ข๐œ๐ž ๐œ๐š๐ฉ๐ญ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ž ๐ฆ๐ž

๐’๐ก๐ž'๐ฌ ๐ฌ๐จ ๐œ๐จ๐จ๐ฅ ๐ž๐ฏ๐ž๐ซ๐ฒ ๐ญ๐ข๐ฆ๐ž ๐ฌ๐ก๐ž ...

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confessionadmired

letter to spring

letter to spring / michael kwack

ย 

ย 

in a wind

there iย smell a scent of spring

ย 

i've passed the winter away

in a far place alone

ย 

but it was now

only hours of emptiness


i've got to writeย letters

the last confession to myself

ย 

then meet the spring

in complete quietness

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aloneconfessionemptinessfarquietnessscentspringwindwinter

Queues

Jimmy would stand in queues

he had nothing better to do

it helped him pass the time

busier than any church pew

ย 

he might pick the odd pocket

at girls rubbing and grinning

on Saturday go to confession

confess to a vicar his sinning

ย 

mam told him to wrap up warm

made sandwiches for his belly

strange folk he met in queues

impatient grown up and smelly

ย 

...

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queueschurchconfessiongropedpolice cell

Confess

A piece of my yearning

was lost to the churning

sound of a life laid bare

inside the confessional.

Seated beside a lost pirate

of the human race,

stealing unwitting souls

selling my skull and bones

to the undertaker for the

price of my wretched sins.

A reprieve for my soul?

Well, at least, that's what

he promised to me.

I had my doubts and

left him fingeri...

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confession

You Are My Priest

Is it not the beads you count
Is it not that blessing
Is it not your seated position
on the far side of the screen

Itโ€™s here I come and spill
twisting myself as rope
endlessly unknottingย 
a constant confessional

And through the cracks
behind the mesh
I feel your furtive eyesย 
licking my salacious lines

Dear reader
you are my witness
you are my priest

Is it not the way you br...

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sharing workwritingwriteoutloudconfession

A List Of Things We Buried In The Garden

A List Of Things We Buried In The Garden

ย 

- A photograph of better times.

ย 

- An empty bottle of scotch.

ย 

- A well thumbed copy of โ€˜True Crimesโ€™.

ย 

- A useless, broken watch.

ย 

- Seven bottles of little white pills.

ย 

- A pair of latex gloves.

ย 

- A folder with a thousand bills.

ย 

- A bunch of dead foxgloves.

ย 

- The broken vase they occupied...

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