We're born, a blur, we die,
A window, a view, our eyes,
On rusted tracks our lives are shuttled,
Time is close and ever subtle.

But I refuse.

You close your eyes but mine want to see
I'll conform to no form and rhyme with no lines

And you know what? I'll do that now.

fuck structure and grammar and punctuation and propir speling i wont even bother to use paragraphs correctly because why should we if everything all this you're reading is just a means to an end and if different means work 

then why end at this.

this should be a beginning a rebellion of sorts from the shackles we're taught to admire to desire to wear with such pride knowing how they restrict but we're fixed on being fixed but

when was i ever broken ?

youre doing this wrong youre doing this wrong on and on from teachers and people who know what they know but let it all go in place of routine and what the fuck does that mean if you can't even choose what way you exist

its a pervasive illusion that dreaming is useless and the answer we crave is only portrayed with BUT EVERYONE ELSE DOES IT 
does this mean its okay? No, I shouldn't think so.

but my voice will be drowned by the mechanical sounds of incessant hums and disapproving sighs of those who have lived longer lives and 
i hope youre around when i reach your age 
to show what i found could have replaced 
the hollowed out empty of the space you have spent your entire lives trying to fill with what people have told you will

but until then my forehead has something to say:


Well said, forehead. That pretty much sums it up.


Nadoedope | 8 January 2013 at 04:33

"yt5tr4guhyj" Best. Quote. Ever. HAHAHAHAHA.

Well written!

Anonymous | 7 March 2013 at 06:41

you don't know how good you are. from one poet to another, just keep writing.

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