Sunday, August 25, 2013

The Text as Message

Sometimes I just feel better when
I write dumb things down that won't fly
With anyone, not even me.
The world's enough to make me cry,

Read that however you damn please.
The hours that crumble in my bones
That crumble under me insist
There's more to names than sticks and stones,

But they're wrong. There's no more to names
Than scaffolding for commonsense,
Nothing that pain resists or stains,
Nothing that wasn't, even then.

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