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literature

Poppies

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We’re all going to join the army.

Hanging from the branches
Of bigger dreams
The cumulus smudges across the sky beckon us;
With hyperbolic grins, we announce
It like a party trick
I’m going to join the army
Be like those ones on TV
Those ones with the big guns
Me too.

The pencil-scratching,
Peeled-back grins of the examiners
Revealing jagged pins
Pen lids
Brown desks.
The rush of blood to the head.
The summer sun streaming in,
Flinging itself across the polished floor to land
Upon my outstretched hand.
Adrenaline
Real adrenaline
Lives far from this containment
This
Corruption.

And now I press my ghostly, outstretched fingers on indifferent walls
Whitewashed, you can hear the cold, pulsating heart of death
Working its gleeful way under these floors.
And now a sadomasochistic streak raises its leering head
And tiny box windows look out on concrete grey
To keep our claustrophobia at bay.

(Left, right, left, right)
Robotic precision. Perfection.

I still remember the remnants of glory through the foggy carcass of a mind
Although cataracts have almost made thought blind;
That one endless afternoon on scorched Iraqi soil

When a seventeen-year-old died.

What do you say,
To the choking, blackened blood of guttural screams?
How do you reassure the doomed?
How, at seventeen,
Can you pump agonised minds with fairytales of commendation?

How do you tell her last relation?
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We could never fashion flight from our broken boned epiphanies (Or raise our shattered glasses to the red on her lips) But anaemic as horses we parade them through these streets Revolution is nothing but progress here Perched on razorwire fences Birds give names to ghosts and raise them as their own Truth is a figment of your imagination And the telephone is the wire around your neck Hung up with wishes across the grand suburbia Our zeitgeist is a harlot She teaches us that duty justifies submission. It doesn't There is salt in the street but the banks are empty From weeping like the chorus torn from our lungs We never quite gra
© 2006 - 2019 watchmedancewildly
A poignant journey from young aspirations to the reality of what our society indoctrinates us into.
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When he came back from the war, all he saw was shrapnel. Not like the sort on the battlefield, at home there were no bodies, there was no thick sticky blood on his hand, She stood at the beach, brushed back a strand of hair a jellyfish washed onto shore. She knew only the dead were that clear and it reminded her of the poisonings: dead cats and dogs curled in balls along the sidewalk after some jerk littered the doorsteps steaks marinated in cyanide. instead, he watched his family, watched himself at the dinner table as if he weren't even eating swallowed the potatoes and wondered "where is the metallic flavor;" "where is th
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Emo? is it really that bad? you cant accept the fact that i get a little sad? that i am a little mad? so i favor black and i dont like pink you use those as reasons to make my soul sink so some of us cut and some of us dont we can smile laugh love and live we're just not like the rest sure we cry we want to die but none of you understand its not like we had planned to live life like this to spend our days depressed and amiss we're not bad people we dont worship satan we're not out to kill anyone we just dont like the world as much as everyone else and we dont like ourselves as much as we could but we're ok with tha
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We could never fashion flight from our broken boned epiphanies (Or raise our shattered glasses to the red on her lips) But anaemic as horses we parade them through these streets Revolution is nothing but progress here Perched on razorwire fences Birds give names to ghosts and raise them as their own Truth is a figment of your imagination And the telephone is the wire around your neck Hung up with wishes across the grand suburbia Our zeitgeist is a harlot She teaches us that duty justifies submission. It doesn't There is salt in the street but the banks are empty From weeping like the chorus torn from our lungs We never quite gra
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