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Beatrice Prior Dec 2014
Let's get down to business,
To defeat the bad ones,
Did they send me daughters?
When I asked for sons...

You're the saddest bunch I ever met,
But you can bet before we're through,
Miss, I'll make a man, out of you...

Tranquil as a forest,
But on fire within,
Once you find your centre,
You're sure to win,

You're a spineless, pale, pathetic lot,
And you haven't got a clue,
Somehow I'll make a man, out of you,

I'm never gonna catch my breath,
Say good-bye to those who knew me,
Boy, I was a fool in school for cutting gym,
This guy's got me scared to death,
I hope he doesn't see right through me,
Now I wish I really knew how to swim!


To be a man,
You must be as swift as the coursing river,
To be a man,
Need all the forces like a great typhoon,

To be a man,
Need all the strength of the raging fire,
Be mysterious as the dark side of the moon!

Time is racing towards us,
As the bad ones arrive,
Heed my every order,
And you might survive,

You're unsuited for the rage of war,
So pack up, go home, you're through,
How could I make a man, out of you?

To be a man,
You must be as swift as the coursing river,
To be a man,
Need all the forces like a great typhoon,

To be a man,
Need all the strength of the raging fire,
Be mysterious as the dark side of the moon!
From Tobias to Tris before her first wrestling match against Peter,
as well as before the big battle against the Erudite.
Inspired By Mulan.
Advait Feb 2016
In sooth,
A suit suits me not,
Nor does a suit soothe me a lot.
I am no snoot,
But it makes me feel like a brute.
After a pursuit, I did find out that
a suit is definitely not smooth;
Oh, shoot! It feels like a layer of soot,
Probably like a bag of jute
Without the color of Groot!
I shall no longer hoot about my suit
As I always scoot up to fruitful roots,
But y'see, this poem bears no fruit.
What is that you say? Season 6 is en route?
G'bye, I'm off to watch the Suits.
Lucius Furius Jul 2017
"23: July 24"
"24: October 5"
"25: February 19"
"26: December 14"
  
The words went right to the pit of my stomach.
All doubt was gone.
I'd graduate/be drafted in June.
By September
I'd be in Vietnam.
  
My high school gym teacher had been an Army sergeant.
He stepped on our stomachs as we did sit-ups,
"toughening us up".
I've had a problem with authority
(unsuited, temperamentally,
to obeying unconditionally).
I'd be a poor soldier in the best of wars.
  
But if a job required some independence/ingenuity --
a pilot or a spy, say --
and if the cause was right
(World War II, for instance),
I could fight as well as another guy.
  
I don't like fighting,
but I'm not so naive as to think it's never a necessity.
There's always someone who, given the chance,
will take our possessions and make us their slaves.
So who should decide
if a particular war is justified?
This seemed to be my own responsibility.
  
Vietnam? I decided it wasn't.
Weren't we protecting a democracy?
No. Thieu lacked popular support.
Wouldn't Thailand and India fall?
No. The domino theory was questionable at best.
Weren't our national interests at stake?
No, not really.
I'd decided I shouldn't fight;
They'd decided to make me fight.

The physical was set for March.
Unless I failed,
I'd go to Vietnam,
go to jail for seven years,
or go to Canada for the rest of my life.
  
In studying Army regulations,
I found a fascinating chart.
It showed for each particular height
the greatest and the smallest weight
the Army would accept.
I'd heard of people who'd gotten out
by injuring themselves intentionally.
Some exaggerated a minor back pain.
Others faked insanity.
Losing weight seemed nobler;
lying/mutilation, not required.
  
The low for me was 118;
lose twenty pounds and I'd be out.
(At 5'10", that's pretty thin.
Could I do it and not get sick?)
My parents thought for sure I'd die.
  
Help from doctors was out of the question;
on my own I studied nutrition.
Cut down on calories,
maintain needed nutrients
(protein, essential fats, vitamins, and minerals).
Once I found a working combination,
I stuck to it without exception.
Cottage cheese, wheat germ, and fish were staples.
Bored fat cells chose self-immolation.
My weight dropped to one hundred and twenty.

In cases where the weight was close
I'd heard the Army sometimes winked:
("Oh we'll fatten this guy up").
I decided to lose to one hundred and ten.
  
Contrary to my parents' fears --
though vigorous exercise made me dizzy --
I really wasn't sick at all.

The Army sent a special bus
to take us to the physical.
Once there, we stripped to underpants,
moved like cattle from each room to the next.
I weighed 110.
They classified me 1-Y
(examine again in a year;
if still unfit, reject).
Losing again would be inconvenient,
but free of worry since I knew that it worked.
  
I'd brought some food.
I drank and ate it ravenously.
  
So what did I feel on that bus heading home?
Triumph? Elation? No.
Relief, sadness, and guilt.
Relief because finally I was free of this mess.
Sadness and guilt because someone else
would be made to go and fight in my place.
It's true this person, on some level,
had chosen not to escape --
but maybe he just hadn't thought it through. . . .
  
Now for a bold statement from a slimy ex-draft-dodger --
I'm sure you'll think this hypocritical -- :
Each of us must be ready to serve.
Responsibility for protecting things we love
can not lie solely with the professional military.
(Future wars could overwhelm them.)
  
Service isn't always guns.
Service might be joining the Peace Corps
or electing leaders who effectively distinguish
false threats from real ones -- and pre-empt war.
  
Wars should be rare, ****** upon us.
No more propping up tottering dictators.
No more shoving "Democracy" down people's throats.
No more sacrificing 10,000 soldiers so we can pay a
      quarter less for gasoline.
  
Wars should be necessary and just;
everyone should serve.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF_025_draft.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems ( https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
Brandon Barnett Apr 2012
prepared for any kind of fight; rifle, helmet, knife, even glaring teeth
she comes at me like I'm a hive of bees
but who can blame her, after all, who's really adequately prepared to handle me

she only cuts shallow and jabs, never stabs for the heart
unlike me, she won't ****, unsuited to play that part
she's a survivor, she heals, I'm a comet in it's one bright radiance before breaking apart

anxiety makes you shudder like a dump truck coming down a bumpy street
depression dictates who you call, when you work, what you eat
if you're not bipolar then i'm afraid the three of us will probably never meet

punching clinched fists through doors is a cheap circus trick
but taking out the anger is dangerous without something to hit
because it pours it up, tries to drink itself down, and drowns everything around it

my remorse stiffens me in bed next to her sleepless I wear the darkness, rigamortis and black suit
I feel my poison wilt her, bend her stems, dull her colors, shrink her roots
i have burned all the wood in her pile just getting started a fire the size of my selfish pursuits

carrying sandbags roped onto me one parent and sibling at a time
dragging the chains of days barely survived still hooked into my skin like the other memories of their kind
I stall her pace, hold her back, make her trudge uphill, I make her climb
but her undaunting patience somehow persists in her, in me: still, calm waters sublime

She comes at me like I'm a hive of bees prepared for any king of fight
only wanting to save me, to heal me, to give sleep back to my nights
bread for it, I show teeth and cut for blood and she continues to be the definition of grace in my life
Evan Stephens Sep 2018
Anger soaks the room abruptly,
I'm thinking of you.
Cleaning out my black bag
I find my tarot deck, waiting
in its green tin tomb.
I shuffle and deal across
the face of one of the paintings
I've been working on,
a red face scratched out.

The brown lid of night
hinges closed hard,
and lamps take up the slack
with yellow spittings.
I draw the Tower,
the Ten of Swords,
the Hermit.
Past, present, future tenses,
all corrupted.

But who's surprised?
I derailed it all myself.
Only the cat,
the palette knife,
and the lonely guitar
bring life to days
made thin with the grim
solipsism of therapy,
intolerable solitude,
and the conviction
that I am unsuited
for all of it anyway.

Of course, sometimes
the depression rots away
back into the sickly loam
where it first bloomed.
It's replaced by the mocking
low-key mania that howls
half-hopes, that each throb
like a throated singing bowl
combined with the profane
drone of an air conditioner.

In those moments,
things get done.
Bills get paid.
I reach out to other people,
breach the indifferent yawn
I feel between each of us.
I splurge, scrape a stool
up to a bar, borrow
an acquaintance for an hour,
or else drink hard liquor alone
until my teeth sing and drown.
agdp Mar 2013
Difference meant crosses
connecting lines of diffusion.
Anak, there was a time
your last name - carried
but prejudice will follow.

Our immigration,
garnered tailored unsuited
ties to our beautiful pearls,
progress adapts singularity,
a strength for your identity.

Relief, from fastened shades
opens palms allowed to dry.
Soiled worth will blossom
your ancestry will procure
self-reflection, and will spread.

Speaking our language
turned to novelty stones.
But a divided tongue
will speak the same good
bringing you respect.

Wash your hands, pray before
eating with your hands.
Appreciate the feel of the rice
each grain has it’s worth,
the pull from our hull.
consciouswrdsbt © 2012-2013
AlanK Jul 2014
Your soul is shaken by the turbulent seas
A ship unsuited for the journey
You dream of sleep in safe harbor
Salt water washes your tears.

Without a course you drift
Upon the waves
The last drop of fresh water
Has moistened your lips

Seeking the guidance of the stars
You gaze upon the skies
Dark clouds obscure your view
And send you to the maelstrom.

In the darkest of the muddy night
A ray of light stirs your soul
The clouds have parted
And Polaris appears.

With hope abandoned
You glide toward the light
Blind faith fills your sails
And leaves the storm in your wake.

Fatigue and failure grip your spirit
You are overtaken with sleep
Your nightmares are quiet
And you float peaceful like a gull.

Was it the light or the heat
That stirred you at dawn?
Calm. Steady. Warm.
A harbor safe from the sea.

That faulty compass at your feet
It was so foolish to trust
Tossed overboard, it disappears
Quietly like your past.
Brittany Leigh Feb 2010
'Consumption'

Once upon a time she believed in everything
Tried a little or a lot
of anything she was exposed to
Wrong didn’t exist
Some things were just unsuited
to her particular tastes
But faith and followership
are equally slippery slopes
and soon wrong wasn’t the issue,
because nothing was ever right.
Truth didn’t come in a bottle
or a box or a tin
it didn’t sit on a knife’s edge
or whisper from inky pages
or wobble in on shaky legs of sound
Right and wrong merged into
a mass of general indifference.
It began to seem that perhaps,
just perhaps
the very idea of truth
was mere fabrication
a carefully woven tapestry of entrapment
designed to subtly coerce the masses
into a single file line of submission
She was ashamed
because she was once a great consumer
of just those things
that now seemed so false
Reality was her defeat.
the end
Samy Ounon Oct 2014
Birdy, mind your ears: my howls dash the desert’s edge
My passing gusts will matt your feathers fair and faint
And scratch your eyes of liquid soul with grainy kiss
And gentle downy is unsuited for the desert’s bipolar breadth
Accompanied by what I fear is desperate, decrepit depth
Yet you flutter further in the flats, breaching the jagged heart-planes

Doleful dabs of curt dismay smatter some sodden planes
The wrenching, soaked, woolly pelt fumbles at the edge
And he hopelessly attempts to slow his slide into the depths
The depths ****** in dew to make heaving paws faint
Paws drowning in imbued imbalance: my broken flooded breadth
Washed out and faded just short of amber kiss

Who does he yowl at night to kiss?
A range of mismatched capricious planes
Breath for miles of biome breadth
Between each bound a splitting edge
As fate would weave, his heart is faint
And craves impassioned, tender depth

Perhaps the hiemal hillsides bear a greater, sanguine depth
Beneath the snow are pines to smell, daffodils to kiss
Amid the pungent, frigid, fear the air contains a faint
Hint of something sweeter there, buried in the planes
And when the blunt ice trickles warm, beneath the caustic edge
A range of life of a new kind: unbeguiling breadth

Who forsaw the vanguard hunch of birds and bears for breadth?
Not I believed that birds could dive in deserts and find depth
Not I believed that bears could whet love from sharp edge
Not I believed, thus almost missed, fate’s gentle ghostly kiss
Not I believed and thus I blew dark clouds across the planes
Not I believed in him, thus it was I who was so faint

And in the meadows lions crawl and crocodiles faint
And happily, with wherewithal, the boa to gaur breadth
All coexist in mystery perplexing on placid planes
Burrowing through sand and snow, birds and bears find depth
Jumbled earth and tumbled thoughts, a misty morning kiss
Stitches the bipolar planes and hems the obscure edge

Across the crystal planes you see their trusting dives to depths
The bird’s faint singing drifts through waves as it explores the breadth
The bear’s protective kisses peek just beyond the edge
this is a sestina
I need to grow up but I don't know how
When my feet hurt I ask myself
Could that be? At this young age I have already begun to
        dilapidate?
Or is it just my brain weakening,
Panting, airless, reluctant -

I was not made to live this life, nor were you -

My mind says my legs were meant to
Traverse natural fields
And gape without scrutiny at the beauty
        of things around me
So my body tires walking on tiled hallways
Because it knows better than I
As to what this body was cut out to be -
But it's specifications don't fit
        any of these multitudes of molds
So I cram myself into angles and
        depressions unsuited
        because it's for the best
        it's for the betterment of society
        it's so I have a place on this earth -

But I already had a place, we all did,
Now our bent forms are unrecognizable to
Our Mother who wonders
"Why would my child pervert itself
        out of shape from its beautiful form?"

Through what common pair of eyes do we all see and
        at what point did we decide
        our own couldn't show us truth?
m Oct 2010
A fish, floating by.
I love fish.
A long, long time had I been out here.
How I would’ve loved to have returned.
Climbed I up the boat’s water ladder.
A strange sensation, that of ****** and misplacement.
The wind, cold but relaxing, blew against my suit and pulled the water to join its larger colony at the edge of the boat.
Heat, contradicting the wind.
I love the sun.
A long, long time had I been out here.
How much I missed my home.
Exited he the cabin.
A familiar sensation, that of smiling and friendship.
The towel, warm and fuzzy, protected from the wind; thought the wind wasn’t bad, it had started to bite because it was wet, and it thus made me happy.
Clothes, comforting yet alien.
I love being comfortable.
How I would’ve loved to have been comfortable on the ship.
Slept I in the most comfortable bed.
A strange sensation, falling in nothing.
The dream unreachable.
Hair, in my face.
“Hey, mornin’.”
“Morning.”
“You didn’t say ‘hi’ when you got back.”
“Sorry…”
“It’s okay, welcome home.”
Jumped I into the great open sea, unsuited.
A strange sensation, falling in everything.
Jack Piatt Dec 2011
I wear my heart up my sleeve
Where most can’t see
Just far enough away
To give it some reprieve
From the beatings it takes
beyond the beats
it makes
and those hands that
just want to take
instead of give
**** instead of let live
so I hide it away
from the unsuited
hearts so convoluted
reaching and grabbing
poking and stabbing
leaving scars
instead of love
in their passing
piles of pain
amassing
an ache left
everlasting
waiting for the one
who brings peace
instead of taking
a piece
so up my sleeve
the waiting
and the wanting
hide beneath clothes
both daunting
and haunting
for that one
soft and lovely
boundless sweetness
floating above me
patiently anticipating
the kiss that brings
an end to this
waiting
for my wish
to grow into
fruition
my soul’s mission
accomplished
Josie Patterson Nov 2014
your face is like marble
perfectly contoured to reflect your state
an evershifting masterpiece
like sand flowing through an hourglass
time slipped away
and your hair like a beach on a crisp day
your voice like a warm stream
my limbs long to intertwine themselves with yours
like the twisting knarls of an overgrown cedar
growing into one another
and though grainy through pixelated screens
you are beauty
in unconventional ways
the words i use to describe you are mundane
and unsuited to yourself
though the english language could not have the capacity
to encapsulate your beauty in any words
and you are
beautiful i mean
i see you
and i cant believe that i am the one to give you butterflies
when tones buzz
and miniscule letters are recieved
i physically cannot contain my feelings
i do a lap
jump up and down
run anywhere
to try and come to grips with you
and how you feel about me
because the butterflies that i feel when i even think about you
fill me to the brim
and burst out in a sigh
or a squeal
some physical reminder of the way you make me feel
like a young mountain range
we are still shifting
and evolving around one another
your magnificent peaks shadow my jagged cliffs
and our plates push up against one another
creating friction
in the best of ways
but the best of days
are made even better
by simply reminding myself that you are a wireless connection away
an entity to feel emotions towards
because your beauty
will always be real to me
and if i ever forget to tell you
please read this poem
Abraham Esang Oct 2017
These kids were guaranteed a superior life. Some picked up this.

This is the narrative of the numerous who did not. It is told from a girl's perspective.

No bitterness filled our adolescence days, my folks did their best to raise

their posterity in a climate of care.

We knew they both were English conceived, transported from an existence miserable,

ousted into a halfway house stark.

A stage they'd needed to repudiate, so till this day we had not known

what they and different transients needed to endure.

A mission by some for reward implied ventures to conclusion could start,

with governments and individuals more mindful.

For tribulations of the past, 'Conciliatory sentiments' have come finally

to casualties whom society denied.

Overlooked once they'd left their field, this descendants of country's poor,

no follow up to perceive how they'd survived;

no enthusiasm for these adolescents' predicament – put out of mind when beyond anyone's ability to see –

the balm of greener fields very much plotted.

Two issues understood by their expel. To help grow, the English fashioned

an arrangement affirmed and shrewdly thought up.

For individuals attempting to survive – no aid to keep their young alive –

this offer appeared the solution to their supplication.

They marked their kids to the plan, surrendering to bait of dream,

"They'll 'ave a superior possibility at life down there."

One hundred thousand crossed the ocean, far from home and family

entangled into the predetermination they'd share:

for probably the first time they'd gone, at that point they were lost, quite recently throw away like deny hurled,

also, the individuals who endeavored to contact them confronted give up.

Survival turned out to be lifestyle, these kids compelled to endure strife

created codes of comradeship to bond.

The feeling of mate ship loaned relief, simply small solace to soothe

the weight of facade that each had wore:

for expulsion to south of Earth persuaded them that they had no worth,

conveyed questions and fears excessively crude, making it impossible to ascend past.

Their stoic activities planned to conceal feelings covered somewhere inside -

the requirement for affection, with nobody to react.

The injuries of the evenings alone, far from all that they had known,

apprehensive and detached, set apart,

while during that time of steady drudge at dairy tasks and working soil,

depleted youngsters combat from the begin.

What sins had brought deserting? No news from family or letters sent,

as mail was screened for wrongs it may confer.

Unpaid-for work, benefit based, saw fundamental tutoring soon deleted -

overlooked, similar to the torment inside the heart.

The stories that were never heard, mishandle by discipline and word,

the pole of iron used to keep control

by gatekeepers yet inadequately instructed, responding to their dread, troubled,

lost, and very unsuited to their part.

Cruel hardship ruled through ruthless measures unexplained

to kids deprived of poise. Some stole

the remainders of their confidence with acts more unsafe than disregard -

debased *** that wracked the very soul.

Too long kept secured, concealed ills, with fear and blame such wrongdoing imparts –

refusals, casualties frightened, staying stupid.

Presently at long last the quiet breaks, affirmation of past oversights

uncovering embarrassments unbelieved by a few.

Oh dear, my Father's not any more here. Those times of hardship and of dread

had made his psyche and body capitulate.

In any case, Mum is remaining close by, she's stood up, reestablished some pride,

she's demonstrated the valor that can overcome.

To state we're sad's only a begin to alleviate unsettling influence of the heart.

No word, or deed, or store can adjust

for absence of home and family rights, for work-filled days and dread filled evenings -

this token is too little come past the point of no return.

But my mom feels finally, through acknowledgment of the past

- contrition for the disgrace that was their destiny -

that injuries now cleansed and opened wide, not left to putrefy somewhere inside,

may mean her tormented bad dreams can subside.

Overlooked youngsters - youth lost, still scarred and hurt, awful cost,

spurned, banished, and by all scolded.

To push forward's their exclusive course, on past lament and profound regret,

the revulsion of their childhood should now be recorded.

Bad form has been exposed. My mom's petition is this may

keep the bitterness of some future kid.

Maybe remorse, cruelly earned, may imply that lessons have been educated -

also, with this expectation in heart, my mom grinned.
B Sonia K Jan 2020
Gushing out like liquid from a faucet
The expression of my intense passion for you
The pleasing outcome of riding this tremulous wave
And crashing down beautifully
Into our reality of brimming tension
And secrets left unspoken.
We are living a lie.
Some things are not meant to be.
Keerthi Kishor Feb 2018
Unbelievable are the names I have:

Unable
Unworthy
Unfashionable
Unattractive
Unhappy
Unsuite­d
Unwanted
Undesirable
Unbearable
Unlucky
Untalented
Unaware
Unre­liable
Unsettled
Unwilling
Undecided
Unqualified
Unkind
Unknown

­When all I am ever is Unprefixed.
"Dear society, Unchain me."
Marla Aug 2019
Seamstress of my fate, behold:
This side of my is crass and cold,
Is not unsuited for a war.
Oh, seamstress of my fate, therefore,

Could you conceive a way or two,
Concealing things that I could do,
Veiling vile things that I could say.
Oh, seamstress of my fate, I pray!

For when you sow this future now,
I would not want this side to show,
Would want a dress of flowers dried,
Where not one stubby blade could hide.
Mary Gay Kearns Jan 2019
Optimism and pessimissism
A binary opposition
Unsuited to this world
Must change our way of thinking.

Use needs to be more particular
More sensitive
More refined
Find a better word kind.

Love Mary ***
She lay her cards
Upon the table
Then realised
She wasn't able
The ace of hearts
Was missing
She lost
Naz Hasan Mar 2020
Dear Dad,
I've been dying to tell you that I'm gay
tucked away in a box of my childhood toys
you'll find almonds, cashews, and unsalted peanuts
your first son and I are not alike
my favorite color blue, his green
synchronized like gears in a clock
I too am drenched in sweat
I have your oversized cotton t-shirt on
the one I wear to sleep  
I rewatch the video I recorded of Gustavo and I
locked and intertwined
in a shape that's unsuited for your eyes
the same blood running through you
your father and his father
is the same blood that runs through me
resilient, strong and wild like an untamed horse
Hasan, our shared name, my signature
it's similar to yours
Shivpriya Sep 2022
Sub title- An implicative thin line!


O striving thin line! O hard to bear the feeling!

O tenacious enduring struggle!

Skill the frame of my internal heart with your prudent and apprising conditioning.

The heart wants to learn how many heavy-going, demanding situations and exhaustion are more to cross!

The journeying quest of my heart is beholding a variant of endeavoring for impelling the direction of a fragmentary wanting.

I can feel its maladjusted, related affecting.

It is inexperient. The unsuited anger seems to be a thankful friend of heedless botheration! They inanely meet each other!

The diminutival granules of the dear heart say- I can't be a deal for an opportunist! I feel this is how decisiveness is always disposing of with clarity!

The tenderheartedness knows about an enchanted and delicate space of love. It is constantly dissipating the unexhausted anger!

Come, have a look inside my madded heart!

There is wordlessness and lots of tunes. Both are having a fairish time celebrating each other's heartbreaks, anguishes, and unhappiness!

©️shivpoetesspriya
Lxvi Sep 2022
baby buying bruises
          absence always accuses
         keeping karma kneeling
     _assist atmosphere appealing
     {                   (                             ­             )
    {                   (                                          )
  {              slowly symptoms secluded
{              useless united unsuited  
{             soon systems saluted        
{              sound soul shielded        
    {               yonder you yielded
Lawrence Hall Feb 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                   My Soul-Quest for My Meaning

V:

My parents don’t understand me; I’m special
So sensitive, an artist of the mind
So delicate, a bearer of all sorrows
So fragile, unsuited to physical work

They tell me to get off my (self) and find a job

R:

Your parents understand you perfectly
A poem is itself.
Zywa Dec 2020
'Me do', I said
and I burned my fingers
I was a big girl, I wanted everything
my brother was allowed to do

If I feel like it, I'll drive to Paris
on my Norton, in my leather jacket
with imputed emblems
the insulting thoughts

of frightened people
who shun me
declare me unsuited
and skip my turn

'You should be ashamed', they say
but I burn with a desire
to be my own boss
and to do what I can

I'm not inferior to you
I can teach you a lot
I can beat you in everything
and that's only the beginning
“Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better)”
1946, Irving Berlin

Collection "The Big Secret"
Jermon Jun 2021
Do you see the world in color?
Colors so vivid they sear your brain with their mortality.
Beautiful intricate strokes blending into one self-aware perception,
Where even the memory of the self may evaporate.

Your brain in overdrive,
Your feet tingling with every gentle shadow.
And roads.

Roads you forge,
Roads laid down for you by generations of the past and
The future so annoyingly concerned
For a well being
That is outdated
Unsuited.

Colors.

The end, the beginning,
Both the same yet
God forbid
If they are not different.

For when your mind is wiped clean,
The colors will linger,
On your tongue,
Your hips,
Your hair,
Flowing through like

Gentle breezes of a
Chaotic summer’s night.

Unwound.

24.06.2021

— The End —