Friday, April 8, 2011


the sky is not blue
it's white
with the heavy sense of rain
the clouds have no shape

the pressure i think
of the world just feels so heavy
i am my very own prometheus
it's hard to imagine
what being him might have felt like
yet not so hard

lying on the grass
it's hard prickling demenear
but it's sweet smell too hard to leave

the black wood of trees
and the light green of its leaves
what beauty could it be

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