Monday, August 1, 2011

poem || Edward Nichols

Synthetic Trees and artificial flowers

Like a festering wound, my stamina sets there ready to burst,

You know what I mean, yelling at an image, mine, yours- an echoe comes back;
could it be the mirror seeing it's own reflection; calling one back to one,

The created creating the created

Daydreaming while setting on pins and needles; one of them shoots me in the ass; now I'm high.

You mah think this is up above you, no way brother-its just level, even, can always feel them following me,

I turn to look and they're gone of course

Are you reading this poem,or, is it reading you,

is it applying it's sub jectivity to you,or, is it vice-versa

My manner often betray different forms, I find the distance

between us, begins to grow, as I find my space, we're all together now.

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