Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Loser Poetry

AT late nights such as these,
the flood gates are open.
The brain maids sweep up
the dust of clattering moods.
All the dust is mostly anger.
I am too lazy to deal with it.
When I am alone, it haunts me.
The dusting maids set it on fire
to watch me torture myself and
the others because my eyes
open to the landscape of hell.

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