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Thursday, September 23, 2004
(lost is this poem. . .forever)
hope supplanting itself
deep in woods full
of darkest
the barks of trees
the call of wild
the sounds of nature
the ants armying through
the holes dug from the shrew
the caterpillars, changing in cocoon
the twittering birds, nests of hay
the shrubs, foilage, weeds
all of these
inevitable to die
but still alive
here hope lingers
but deeper in, going within
the dunnest parts
where silent silence
makes meddle to noise
dwells what try as might to avoid
seeming like an endless devoid
whose black wallows decay
seeking forth to destroy the day
with it, all the forest
the dryness has its way
rain dare not cry
rain dare not try
the sun dare not blind
I had all of this poem written here, just now, but then, of course, when you write something that's fucking amazing, it never seems to post it.
This is all of it I have, now, and it stands very doubtful I could do what I've just done.
So fuck. And this is all I have.
When you lose something you've created, just gave birth from your mind. . .that's [one of] the worst possible injustice[s]. It just feels like you've missed a part of your psyche that's physically conjured itself up in the form of words, forever.
Oh well. Please tell me what's here suffices for something amazing?
How I wish I could give what I had before, though.
Also, I'd like to point out something I found interesting. . .something that happened subconciously.
A shrew is, of course, the mouse-like rodent. . .but also, a shrew is a woman, a bad-tempered mean one.
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