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|01-07-2006, 03:53 PM||#1|
Join Date: Dec 2005
Spinning the threads of existence,
My hands weave an afghan
Of experience, periods, and centuries.
Enslaved by a man,
Who created a circular cell
To incarcerate humanity with the fear of the finite.
My rain has washed away,
Chalked pavement masterpiece.
My flames have reached,
As high as the crayon scribbles
You used to mark your growth.
I replaced all the damage I’ve done
To your first house.
In giving you a 3rd story apartment in the city.
Where you will lock all the doors,
Seal all the cracks
So naiveté can’t seep in.
Longing for when you weren’t
Trapped. In the radius of
My circular cell
That has imprisoned you, and everyone you know.
|01-08-2006, 03:51 PM||#4|
Good Job on the poem.. it has good meter. but like ch'ken warrior said.. there are some awkard phrases! but other than that good job
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