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| Stabbing poetry. by mrs. johnson 08/05/2003, 7:11pm PDT | ||||
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| Epic Garbage (I might have posted this already, but I can't find it.)
A chilled breeze inside my brain, Stimulate whatever it is you want, Three times the chemicals have lain, It is time that I go on the final hunt. Who is that with a feral shotgun? It is the ghost of a dead land, Having just too much breakfast fun, Waiting for the time it has to bend. Once, I found out I was lying in dirt, The tree time Columbus bade me away, I decided to stay and be hurt, But his power held too much sway. Why would you take away a surrogate fate? The panic induced by the drugs is quite real, Everywhere I go, it seems I am always late, No matter what I do, I still barely feel. Twenty six letters, and some punctuation, Out of the sky come nonsense and his evil twin, It all depends on the permutation, The line between the two is blurred and thin. Come off your high horse, Jed, The morose column interior is sure to burn, Wherever you look, you see with your head, With four seconds left, you can no longer learn. No one shall ever find a final peace, Life is short and useless, Enjoyment is your only lease, To live life in a muddled mess. Confusion and temperament, Each stinking up my house, Wait, that isn’t what I meant, Confusion is great. the mrs. |
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Stabbing poetry. by 08/05/2003, 7:11pm PDT  Part Two by 08/05/2003, 7:22pm PDT |
