Become a Fan
By Liz Bon
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Rated "G" by the Author.
See for yourself...
Trying to box her own ears for having cheated herself to think she won, and in spite of her deranged passion, she returned to the grave she slithered out of.
The dirt was somehow comforting to the one who fell off the wagon
on a holiday, but with the discovery of the wormed out hole, he thought he could catch a rat in, he stayed, as one would think.
And oh, I wish you could see the two careless "flaunting their hatred," lunatics, eat and drink everything made of carefully stolen, measured poisons. Without words of growth, with shattered records of hopes and dreams, without passion for attracting life or even fleeting friendships, they gave nothing and received less.
Painful to blink, close my eyes, or stare, the lens zooms in, as you can see, his horizon straining the view and squeezing the blank page of secrets.
Erased from breathing by vocal chains, he knows there is no escape, just a swirling slow death lost to a game of chase.
Six feet and counting and counting and counting...
Hell or Heaven as she calls it looms closer, breathing sickness for her selfish throne. She finds all this amusing while crying in the dirt disguised with dye and paint. So much in common, she thought…and yet she had the feeling her prize is no more than the destructive deception she projected outward like her bile, due to some internal conflict.
Go rally up your exhausted laughter and not feel the pain... . you cannot make permanent that which is fleeting.
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|Reviewed by Brian Heir
|Wow, interesting rant, Liz. Looks like poetry, with a vengeance.|