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Literature Text
THIS DISEASE
We live in world where selfishness is a disease,
An epidemic of hatred, dropping us to our knees,
Words get spewed, infected with flat out lies,
It has become a culture on the brink of demise,
People turn their back when you need them most,
And all you hear are the ones who brag and boast,
I have said it before, blame is pointing right at us,
We have to change our ways, you know we must,
We have to reach out our hands to those in despair,
And let our actions show others how much we care,
We have to stand up to this disease and do our part,
And let it be known, there’s good in our hearts...
-brad
We live in world where selfishness is a disease,
An epidemic of hatred, dropping us to our knees,
Words get spewed, infected with flat out lies,
It has become a culture on the brink of demise,
People turn their back when you need them most,
And all you hear are the ones who brag and boast,
I have said it before, blame is pointing right at us,
We have to change our ways, you know we must,
We have to reach out our hands to those in despair,
And let our actions show others how much we care,
We have to stand up to this disease and do our part,
And let it be known, there’s good in our hearts...
-brad
Literature
rhyming
peering into another uneventful evening, the soft sunbeam falling gracefully within my field of vision; balming the paleness of my soul, nyctinastic plants ready to tuck themselves in for bedtime, I’m grooving with all my senses, letting selection occur naturally, my heart slowly immersed into bucolic state, a ting of euphoric kissed my eardrum gently - in a perfect sync with the whole of nature, for a moment existing is full of meaning, but I shan’t cling nor dwell on it; to let it be, I let it go, for each moment renews itself; for the purpose is concealed upon revealed, how can I compare the content when the context is ever changing, only metaphorically, O cosmic mystery, let’s flow placidly, this eternal stream - I’m dreaming reality.
Literature
lost spirits
locked up forever in a shadow stricken house no memory why afraid of the light unworthy of redemption clinging to old sins a small sorrow stands silent behind dark curtains afraid to look out sad faceless spirit misplaced between time's edges forever haunted midnight moonlight weighs down the dust on window sills silent grains falling in the dark corners carefully built towers fall pride of ghosts laid low velocity of the moon wears away small flecks of time lost in the darkness starting once again the why is still forgotten deep in an old house being a ghost is a sketchy occupation
Literature
Monologue.Doctor.
Palm shade tree shade on my forehead. I'm lying in bed with subjective fever and sweat. I watch the salty drops running down my fingers, between my shiny rings and nails blood red. Help me, doctor, but I don't know if I really wanna be helped. This dizziness seems familiar to me, and you being here feels like an illusion that will dissolve into nothing, if I pass my hand right through you. The blinding orange radiance is shaping amber waves on my floor and is sore on my eyes. I'm now struggling for breath, but I 'll just smoke you up in a rollie, while I'm slowly looking for my gun. I opened up every drawer, but I can't seem to find it. Or even remember how it looked like. Or if I brought it with me in the first place. I hate how it happened. I'm dancing alone in my short satin night gown, spinning sedately between the light beams, with my eyes dried up. Keep telling myself it's from the fever. And, in a moment, you're here with me. Hello, doctor. I form my hand into a gun.
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I find myself often writing about similar topics. This feels well written and flows nicely.