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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
it means what it said

Submitted: September 04, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 04, 2012



Dusk dawns upon those seeking the night,
while the daytime springs its rebirth
as waking takes its own fight
to escape an eternity in wake.

The dust from dusk out of your oculars
takes its time as you’re clumsily
clash face first, forgetting monocular
cues to save your from the comically

fall from the stairs. Whom among the
above in the tree of relatives can save
YOU now from the confusion nova
spawned from cuts from a poor shave.

…She’s not there, to make you feel loved…
…He’s not there, to make you feel proud…
…Your minds not there, to even revoke crust
off your PB and J at the stroke of noon…

Forgetting to be iambic, you’re no author,
and you’re too soft to be a doctor.
Filled with un-dexterity for even helicopters;
You’re stuck at foot locker…

“Too scrawny, too weak to train”
“Too young to lead, too young for power”
Remember when you were young
and limits meant nothing to you!?

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