Wednesday, January 10, 2007



They make sense now.
Those ideas painted brightly in fingerpaints,
And fingerprints,
And falling leaves.

They would work.
I could fix the world so easily.
Paste the bandaids over the bleeding faces,
And fill the furrows,
On the fevered foreheads.

They’re so simple.
But the leaders follow false trails,
And they’ve forgotten
How to find,
The finite answer,
Of those with fickle minds.

Will they last?
Or will I fall,
And become flabby,
And flaccid,
And flat like the rest?
Will they flinch and flee,
Before the flimsy
Woes of fools?

They will die.
Finally as those ideas
Are found to have flaws.
And innocence forms ignorance,
In a false world of forgery.

Those ideas,
Of fancy and freedom, 
I know they will falter,
And fail,
And fall.

Those fucked up ideas
Of a fifteen year old girl,
Won’t survive in the real world.

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