Tuesday, January 17, 2012

The problem with us

The problem with us


Was that we were too good for the world

Too silly, too smart

That we could live on words

We could for instance

Live on each other

And spend a whole Sunday

Lying on the grass

Laughing, eating,

Making speeches,

We would for instance

Cry for forgotten heroes

Laugh when the other cried

And scribble tear stained letters

That ran on for pages on end

How we ached for pain and sorrow

And departure;

Tragedies most of all.

But when we got our fair share of them,

How we try to cheat out of our sentence.

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