There is nothing left to write but something true. So here it.

There is no feeling anymore. Feel. The world. Nothing.

Catalogue life or the sudden cool of foreign sun.

Not the way it is told in history books because what they forget is this. Us.

Take two hundred years and who are we?

Four hundred.

A thousand.

Our villians, not the public ones but our personal killers will survive in some future form.

Evil must prevail to keep bliss an accomplishment. That is not a problem.

This is real. Possible apeirophobia. Everything must end.

I am not afraid of ending, it is an endless cycle of skin and bone that kills me.

One born. One forgotten.

You are alive and then you are not.

Then less than not. Never.

As if you had always been a photograph

damp in the attic of some five hundred year old stranger.

What are the alternatives?

Become one of those forever junkies lost in the point of no return. Casually breaking down with each year?


Shakespeare will be forgotten

so who are you?

◄ N

Among Bone ►


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Rachel Bond

Mon 21st May 2012 08:36

well im not shakespeare but we all get forgotten, sometimes while we still alive. without creativity we would surely get lost like a forever casual junkie. so just wanna say this is good and something you wouldnt just read and forget.

I am not afraid of ending, it is an endless cycle of skin and bone that kills me

this is one example of why i think that. great description
and that i like the irony that writing a good poem can go some way to save your own life and describe an existence that is much more than its words..

'less than not' is impossible for a writer by virtue of his words. interesting paradox :)

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