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Dirntbag's Landfill

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Oh My Gosh I Wrote a Spoken Word

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Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm still needs some tweaking and it's poetry meant to be read aloud by the writer after all, but my voice sounds like a dying walrus so too bad for you you'll just have to read it and pretend. (I tried to punctuate it well so you can sort of read it as I would pause in speech).

The smog from the city,

Wafting so high

With it's humid tendrils reaching buildings that scrape the sky,

Its cigarette smoke from pursed lips,

Dripping with blood

from the words they spit on to pedestrians heads

and stinging her eyes.

It's her eyes,

indebted with sleep

that cause the lids to

sag down onto her cheeks

with a vacancy in them

that could bypass

One million 'occupied' signs

Her eyes;

Eons ago

a quilt of infinite pattern

so wrapped up safe inside,

but it's only a veil,

an ignorant sheild


Liberating her

from the world behind.

Her eyes now crusted with ice but no aura

Encasing the glacial face of someone who once was

but somehow wandered off her path to greatness,

Her icicle eyelashes

Spearing her, sparing her.

Those frozen over tears,

a blizzard in her city of smog and smoke.

This cavernous absence where she used to be;

Still unfilled

but she walks,

like a skeleton already killed

On these freezing streets

that trap her when she cries.

Or in her house that was never a home

She has time to ponder

these thoughts

as she roams.

It's her eyes,

they're a prison now.

She claws them,

rubs them dry,

these godforsaken burdens of weakness

these pathetic hollows where her vision once sat,

her skin rising up in red blotches underneath

she screams.

She doesn't want to see this world anymore,

as she faces her hands,

the veins so grotesque

she finds her fingers

to be frostbitten.


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