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Post by moseley on May 23, 2020 22:09:34 GMT -6
the hope, four unique letters the corners of the frame, the one we are in looking at the ant farm, framed pondering the flat earth fuckers arguing the four corners of the earth of life, it is a colloquial phrase wholesale said, wholesale sent wholesale lived, wholesale meant but for the ones holding it preciously in their hands in their hearts, and I see less and less of them less and less in me, not because it isn't possible to be but because it runs to be tired and much more precious, time, so the discount warehouse won't take away for only a small cost, all of which we have not stopped to love, of ourselves, and all others because of things, things get in the way we are in the way of things, things bring us closer, maybe if things do so much, why is there a world wherein, things are always the point it seems only with no things, can there be love for others and others who might also have time unhinged on all these things but these things seem to be so important but with or without them, they never satisfy
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Post by anirbas on Apr 30, 2021 0:10:56 GMT -6
You are the maestro of automatic writing, brother.
This poem reeks and wafts of other side of midnight cosmic thoughts, mellow and yet burning- a nice single malt scotch of a poem.
Or some shit. Hahaha. Love it.
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