Silences
By young
- 382 reads
the truth is that
i keep within myself,
bottle myself up,
package myself as to seem
smooth
when jagged lines
cut deep
like fishing hooks, while pain
rages rampant, the
deep cuts
inside, they are breeding volcanic
eruptions, profuse
strains of
sorrow, I did not know that so much
was within irony,
a coin:
the art of the heart, the heart beats
lines,
rhythms of cycles, clones of time,
serious
slips, only the
moist
revelations of a lascivious
afterthought...
the rhymes break, hold
off
make me wander, the pain
shakes
rattles, brains
maggots, and
now, it is the breath of
rudeness, lewdness, the
sexual stink of
outrageous fervor,
murmur,
blunder, shrink into a timber of fire,
but
there:
the center heels so
ripe.
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