Turn it f*****g off.A Poem by Lee W. Deason
White as a ghost, your lips blue by the most.
You all fucked up. You have seen unpleasantly. Burned finger tips, on my left hand. It comes across as a curse. Ill omen of your rat race to nowhere. We are the lonely of two like you. Don't you stop repeating, I feel as if I may understand. Turn your eyes around and look at me with a straight voice. Not even a last choice. White as a ghost, your lips blue by the most. You all fucked up. You have seen unpleasantly. Beaten and whipped, comfortably distant. Its comes across as normal. O no I think I am not ready for this. But it is to late. No don't beckon farewells. We are already drinking from a poisoned well. We are the lonely of two like you. Don't you stop repeating, I feel as if I may understand. Turn your eyes around and look at me with a straight voice. Not even a last choice. I caught you, your a criminal. I caught you, your a criminal. I caught you, your a criminal. © 2008 Lee W. Deason |
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Added on February 6, 2008 Last Updated on March 28, 2008 Author
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