The sharp turns in the road of life
Are giving me emotion sickness
So I vomit some words and ideas
And hope the Balm of Gilead can make me ok
We are earth, we are clay
We are fading like the day
Shards and broken pieces lay
Embedded in my body
Bones are splintered in your hand
Beating on the shifting sand
I recite some useless words and
Declare I am no longer tangible
Our abstract use of language
Allows us to avoid accountability
And it makes me, yeah it makes me
And I make it
© 2006 monalisamarie
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Printed from www.DarkPoetry.com/dp/12450/81913 on Tuesday December 02nd, 2008 04:03 PM
Certain elements © 1996-2008 Matthew Steven (matts.org)
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