Sunday, August 19, 2012

I Hate Every Beautiful Morning

I hate every beautiful morning that we spent wide awake and far apart. Walking streets meeting walking ghosts, walking broad day lights. With a whiff of your hair, that all familiar scent, I find myself repeating imagery and lines, as I am also repeating mistakes and suicide. I have not seen myself in quite awhile. I have been awfully fictitious to everyone, I am claiming originality. Every year, my wish is to redo the other. And at every lapse in time, nullifying your existence alters the presentation in its complete entity. I wish you a grave from which you may never rise upon, one laced with a big heavy stone atop, so you may never rise upon.

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