Hearts Hung Out Like Crimson Targets

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
For my dead friend.

Submitted: April 08, 2011

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Submitted: April 08, 2011

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The words I’m dead may never be said, a recited psych, infinite light that put halos over your leftover bites.

Unmentionable nights, feeling as goofy as a crippled in tights, hungover sights with pleasant radiant delights.

Impregnate the possibilities, discombobulate continuity, abort self retorts like you would to a busted Newport.

Retire my deity, indict bitter sobriety, retelling smells from bottomless wells, yells don’t work well, how often do you see a kid come out of a circular cell?

Let’s all ring florescent bells, relinquish pain like a two legged horse claim.

I knew this dyke, rebels think she’s tight, she killed a shrew, incarcerated for two, long pending death sentence, the harmed nest is put to rest.

She went down, her family faced the frown, attempting letters that bound, a death saw coming is a breath less cunning.

Bountiful worries, from the observatory came this allegory, shoe boxed are our stories.


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