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Same Old Tired Shit

Struggling,
like a sickly kitten in a burlap sack.
My hands weakly claw at the fabric
and it scratches bloody patchworks
on my flesh.
 
Lying,
oppressed by the need
to feed on my own misery.
To deny my mind the respite
of hope and fragrant optimism
 
Indulging,
in my new obsession.
Flowing words from mind
to fingers to page.
Catharsis?  I think not.
 
Imbuing,
those words with the blackness
of my emotions; spewing forth
the same old tired shit
time and again.
 
Dying,
to believe that expression
can cleanse my soul,
wash it clean and white
through poetic confession.

◄ Stop

Bite The Bullet ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 8th Sep 2010 10:33

Steven, I thought I had left a comment, but obviously not. I think this is really good with many outstanding lines. I like the conversational style too, and the ordering of the stanzas. One suggestion perhaps: 'Dying' is used in a slang sense, perhaps by intention to really infer 'Death', but maybe you did mean 'Longing'. "Longing' might be a very apt word here, that would pull all the ideas together. Entirely my opinion.

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