Oil on Canvas A pencil sketch of heaven. Scribbles black and grey Everything that’s in-between A dream of come what may Void of colour, void of feeling. Hidden eyes and hidden ears Always watching, ever seeing Void of sentiment, void of tint. The sky is dead and cold as flint Dead as this unholy land

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A Dark Hall You’re facing down a dark hall Voices echoing like a quiet mall Thoughts racing in the deserts of my mind, The rapid beat of the drum hammering In your ears, “you’re the only kind” Fingers pointing, guns shooting, Medication is my only vacation, One word could break me, It’s not anxiety, dusk

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Bitter Bliss The grey clouds don’t dampen our spirits We leap out of the car Barefooted,resented by the tough tar Yet the damp soggy sand is welcoming The strenuous wind pushes us onward As the rocks leave us behind The soothing horizon grows closer As the sun parts with the day The smell of the

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Untitled She sat in her room, on her bed, with her books, Saying “she missed home”, “But you are at home, darling”, her mother said “You don’t understand – Home is not a house, It’s in good friends, warm campfires and peace, yeah even in smiles. But sometimes I got the feeling it’s within ourselves…

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The Pointing Game Pointed fingers whisper pointed words Behind the shield of the hand; No lines are blurred, Nothing left unheard. Pointed words snag at the leg of innocence, Innocence that was left murdered, Left torn and butchered. The heart broken and quivering. Under the grave lay shredded confidence, But those pointed hands are built

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Create You My life feels like lies, the standards for us are set high Defining what’s considered “normal” or “weird” in this twisted society. The burden of the J.C. is completely crazy, But when you’re done its feels like you’re set free, unhinged, untethered, Like a floating feather drifting along the sky, While the days

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