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Author: LossOfHope03
ASL Info:    16/female/USA
Elite Ratio:    5.76 - 30 /29 /31
Words: 250
Class/Type: Poetry /Depressed
Total Views: 773
Average Vote:    No vote yet.
Bytes: 1736


another work in progress. comments welcome. its a very rough draft...don't get too nervous...its really rough i know.


The light on low
So my eyes don't burn
Hair is wet
I am clean again.
Music is loud
My eardrums burst
Flecks and flakes,
My skins just hurts.
It is red from heat
It is not burnt.
Burnt to the end.
It smells sweet
My head hurts
My brain is mush.
I don't know how to think
Wires disconnected
Electric shocks to all.
The current washes through
And you start to feel like you.
The light on low
I don't think I'll sleep
Sick of a song
It plays again.
My veins are blue and green
They hurt.
Pummeling through
Red blood cells soar.
Really blue
Oxygen hits
Blue turns red.
They flow again.
Open wound
Hurts til I laugh.
Yellow teeth
Like a broken calf,
And I laugh.
The light on low
I sing by myself
In silence.
Til it hurts.
So I laugh.
I live in a rusty lung.
Its quiet inside.
Lots of blue
Runs through.
Rusty lung, my home.
Rusty lung, my home.
The people inside scratch out.
Like a fetus bursting through
To new life.
It burns
And I laugh.
Rinse and repeat.
my rusty lung, my home.
The light on low
So my eyes don't burn
Hair is wet
Music is loud
My eardrums burn
Flecks and flakes
My skin just hurts.
It is red from heat.
It is not burnt.
Burnt to the end
It smells so sweet.
My head hurts
My brain is mush.
I still don't know how to think.

Submitted on 2009-06-05 23:13:04     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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  This is how I may have written it:

lights low so my eyes won't burn -
hair wet from the stream in the hurst.
music is loud while eardrums are aburst
red epidermal 'cause of the heat
sweet redolence wafting
adrift, setting out from my skin.
head hurts - mushy brains.
It's all short circuiting
the ebb washes away..

The lights are low and insomnia
plague my deferred sleep;
my head is heaping itself against a wall
beating itself to the same rhythm
of the same song - the blood cells therein
become blue of emeses.

laughing, singing alone in stark silence
the pang of my rusty lungs twangs as I cough -
my fingers feel blue from all the running
through my wet hair. maybe they need thimbles
to keep the people inside from scratching out
the fetus growing.
into a new life.

I laugh at the irony...
I am not alone, not quite -
not like the silence that once held
my hand
and now hangs by the juice bar prowling

[You know what's really rough? Your education. This was like reading a preschool book. Simple words. Attached by one space. More would be too much. You know? Only this one caters to those young will-be 8 year old pubescent girls who need to watch out for rookeries].

| Posted on 2009-06-07 00:00:00 | by pedestrianpoet | [ Reply to This ]

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