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Dark Poetry : What is the real me?

manuscriptx

New Member
I spent thirty-three years in from the cold, toes clenched and knees buckling on a darkened December afternoon. Dust off the ice crystals. I feel whole again. Breathing the wind induces
an anger I cannot describe. What IS the real me? On a long hot summer morning, I closed all the windows, turned up the heat to 80 degrees and worked up a storm in the axis of evil. Bare sweat glands and never one drop hit the rat ridden floor. I felt the warm corners of my inside elbow wasting away. Suffering the loss yet another affliction I told him, ‘So tell me chief, tell me another story of why the world works’. You **** sons of bitches.

Solitude is my only friend. Reliable and it doesn't judge me. It's not blonde hair and a pair of tits, a one day wake up opposition or a common critic. It doesn't cry or beguile and it doesn't demean me either. I don't need any friends, you know why? I am stronger. I can think as one.
There is an order in things. Until the dog came I was afraid, deathly afraid. Not any more. I am both far and away sought after and short within, cruel and treacherous. I am the ever lasting sand you walk on, here today and when you're gone tomorrow.
 
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