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intertext lu mikan janice qiao dawn to reply
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isn't it? unless the chaos of voices is beyond decipherable and the growing din clogs the nerves like traffic at sundown till all that is left is numb suspension, and a toxic stench. it is a simple matter of pretending, isn't it? unless pretense is just a cover for anguish that begs to be recognized as more than ungratefulness and asks for leave to be at its very worst and still be beloved. and all the question marks chase me down the street as though i left something important and they need to return it but the closer they get the meaner the intention and really it is a snatch-and-run about to happen and what is important was in my left back pocket until a moment oh. i must confess Father, that when you say i love you. i don't know what that means at all. i love you yeah. i know none of those words. and i am ashamed. this taskmaster, Father is particularly cruel. his whip splays across the surface of my heart and rips in cracks that grow and snake till a whole is wholly not. or. maybe, this is the price paid to say i love you? Labels: faith, my poetry, personal |