Part One
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<a name="001">
Is and Was</a>
This land of the Bard
scarred and marred
by a concrete
criss crossed
paving slab embossed
mish mash
of
tarmac
and car parks
as progress embarks
and takes its toll
on the rolling green
awesome scenery
that is and was
the Land of my Fathers.
~
©Ven.Mar2005
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<a name="#002">
Insomniac Extreme</a>
Repeated images,
projected, woolen but strong,
against a backdrop
of inner eyelids.
Yawn.
A quarter century,
of conscious thought.
Insomniac extreme,
this way
born.
Restless nights,
break dancing on crumpled linen.
Her over thumped pillow,
abused and
well worn.
Images repeated,
sheep jumping fence
10,875 ... 86
and sleep comes,
at twenty five,
to Dawn.
by Ven 2002
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<a name="003">
It's All Quiet Now</a>
The toxicity indicator was flashing red.
It's just a glitch,
an error .. they said.
Until people began to fall in the streets,
at their desks,
in the playgrounds and parks,
and supermarket isles.
They said it had to be done.
So as not to cause a panic
and they were right.
It's all quiet now.
©Ven.feb2003
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<a name="004">
Just An Ordinary Man</a>
A man came to the door today, long hair, blue eyes, six three.
He said he was in the area, giving estimates for free.
He said that he could mow the lawn, ... do any odd jobs I could find.
He made no mention of saving souls or healing the sick or the blind.
I showed him to the garden shed, where the tools and the mower were stored
and I noticed the scars on the palms of his hands as he reached for the mower cord.
I said, "Are you who I think you are?" and he told me to lower my voice.
He made me promise to keep his secret. He said he had no choice.
He said he'd tried to walk the road that he thought he was meant to take
but it left him open to ridicule and taunts of FREAK and FAKE,
then psyciatric analasis, intravenous aid
and tests that just confirmed the diagnosis that they'd made.
"They say I'm schizophrenic," he said and I think they may be right
because now I take the tablets I no longer see the light,
feel the urge to help mankind or foretell of its demise.
I have no interest in God and his love or the devils hate and lies.
I simply mow the lawns and fix I things where I can.
I am not the son of God, I'm just an ordinary man.
It seems that modern medicine has cured him of his ills.
Made him ordinary with its sugar coated pills.
Cured him of his caring, of his passion for humanity.
Freed him from the shackles of his obvious insanity
but what if he was right ? with no illness or affliction.
What if the healing, was in fact ...
a chemical crucifiction.
~
©Ven.June2003
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<a name="005">
Literary Bliss </a>
Pin me down, stroke my mind.
Create a scene
.. Affect me !
Tease me with rich simile to cure me of my apathy.
Stoke my purpose with thoughts sublime
in wording that astounds me.
Look in my eyes, weave intricate lies ~ twist your skills around me.
Swathe me in felicity.
Stun me with synchronicity
and fabricate literary bliss for me,
for this to me
... is devinity.
©Ven.Sept2004
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<a name="006">
The Trooping of the Colour</a>
Spring forth o' gallant warrior.
March onward old yellow.
Rush in where pink fears to tread
and worry not of last frosts
nor final breaths of north wind
for thou art the hardiest of foot soldiers.
Occupy the territories !
I assure you ...
new recruits will follow.
Companies of reds and blues
footslogger whites
and pansies
with purple hues
shall trace your maiden course.
Your army will be formidable,
colourful
and utterly unbeatable.
Spring forth and advance
o' valiant daffodil
and storm the verges
'til this drab shade of winter is defeated
©Ven.Apr.2004
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<a name="007">
Fatal. </a>
She sits beside him in calm equanimity
and speaks in dulcet' horse whisperer tones.
He just lies there, no motion, no sound.
Closed eyes, torn flesh, shattered bones.
Sedated.
Outward she shows her sweet disposition
but inward in trumoil she screams,
that his careless frivolity caused this hell
and rendered her hopes and her dreams
over-rated.
She thought back to early that morning
and the look on his face when they came.
Those leather clad junkies of red line revs,
eager to join in the game
actuated.
He picked up his helmet, kissed her goodbye
and straddled his iron whore.
They rode off together in search of the buzz
the motto was "More More More".
Unsated.
She knew as he left, that all was not well.
Intuition ? A hunch ? Who knows ?
She just knew in her heart that he'd take it too far.
One word sprung to mind and she froze.
Ill-fated !.
So now, here she sits in acceptance.
For she knew of all this from the start.
She'd accepted his love of the iron whore
and the speed and adrenaline tart
and waited.
Each weekend for his safe return.
Taking comfort from the fact
that from Monday to Friday he was hers alone.
In accordance with a pact
They'd created.
A contract soon to be null and void
for nought carries on past the grave.
Except ... perhaps for this love
Which she believes fate
desecrated.
She returned to the bed they shared
soon after he took his last breath
and swallowed the pills from the cabinate shelf
hoping the act of death,
conjugated.
©Ven.Apr2003
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<a name="008">
In Self Defense</a>
I'm building an ornamental mind castle
with turrets made from high ideals
and moats of endless possibilities.
Archery slits for shooting critics
and a portcullis of thick skin
to keep them out
... and keep me in.
©Ven.Aug2003
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<a name="009">
Broken Box</a>
We played charades
and monopoly.
We laughed and talked and sang
and interacted,
like family.
The night the tele went BANG !
©Ven.April2003
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<a name="010">
Disgraced</a>
Word thief !
Plagiarist !
Purloiner of the written thoughts
of the talented.
The sad.
The funny.
The mad
and the genuine,
who welcomed you in
open armed.
Hang your head
in shame
as blame
points its finger
at YOU
and go now,
permanently.
Your punishment,
... Banishment !
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<a name="011">
Too Perfect</a>
I watch her walk past my window
each and every day,
in her too short skirt
and her too high boots.
A bleached blond giveaway.
Black rooted
teenage catastrophy.
She strides past with a confidence
that fails to convince.
Her fake tan, fake nails
and fake smile
a little too perfect
and eyelashes too long
to ring true.
Coloured contacts hide the windows to her soul
but I sense her pain.
I hear the stories
of love given too freely
in darkened doorways
and public toilets
and a part of me dies.
I cry,
as I remember the sickness.
The obsession with perfection
and the overwhelming need,
to be wanted.
To be loved.
©Ven.April2003
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<a name="012">
Much to do</a>
Up at eight,
to coffee and the paper.
Much to do
around here later.
Washer must be on by nine.
So many chores.
So little time.
Polish, hoover,
wash the car.
Clean all the junk
off the breakfast bar.
Hope the others get up soon.
I want the beds all changed
by noon.
Peel the veg
by one at the latest.
Beef and yorkshires,
mmm .. the greatest.
Sit, relax and eat at two
but still
a million things to do.
Get the dishes done by four.
Then visitors
knock at the door.
Make tea, make small talk
... entertain.
They leave at six.
Then I'm off again
Bathroom is an utter disgrace.
With nothing in
its rightful place.
Get it sorted, WOW! Looks great !
but before I know it,
it's half past eight
and time to get the supper on.
Just a snack though,
won't take long.
Roast beef sandwiches
to use the meat up.
Then wash the plates
and put my feet up.
Gouch on the couch next to hubby.
Eyelids drooping,
fingernails grubby.
He turns and says;
"Ain't Sundays the BEST
It's great to have a day
DAY OF REST".
Ha ! ... Don't ya just love em!
©Ven.May2003
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<a name="013">
Enough!</a>
Fate keeps putting it's brand new shoes
on the table of my day.
Dropping me,
frequently,
butter side down.
Why is it always the way ?
That my well laid plans,
unravell and fray,
ending crumpled,
and dead on the floor.
Why are these spanners
thrown in my works ?
Why is organisation
a war ?
Why do graemlins live in my week
and place obstacles
in my path ?
Can they be caught with
a graemlin trap
and then drowned
one by one
in the bath .. or,
would this be considered
a genocide ?
Would hippies
rise up in defense
and sell little badges
and "save em" stickers ?
mmm ... probably not
and hence.
I am starting today with a mission.
I'll be burning those brand new shoes.
My toast,
I will butter upside down,
while singing the graemlin blues.
Then I'll track em
and whack em
and kill em all.
I'll show em
I'll blow em away
and others will
hear of the story
and no more will they
mess with my day.
©Ven.May2003
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<a name="014">
Am I Poet?</a>
My life.
Slightly dusty ?
In need of a feathered flick.
Or lightly iced
and sweet.
What's the trick ?
Each day so different.
So diverse.
From sad
to ecstatic
in the blink of an eye.
Mood swings converted
to poetry, lyric and
theraputic verse
are my saviour.
Or are they my curse ?
Do words take me over
and bend my emotions ?
Did I make the write sad
or did the write
sadden me ?
Did ditty and limerick
spring forth
from my joyous soul
or was cheer indeed
simply a goal
and the write
merely an appropriate tool ?
Am I true poet
slave to the word
or just a dependent
and pretentious
fool ?
©Ven.March2003
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<a name="015">
This Dirty Town</a>
So green my valley, so rolling my hills.
So blue the sky that soothes my ills.
Yet how dirty this town, that nestles in vale.
With sexual favor and drugs for sale.
Tis merely a mile thats separates
the beauty from the deviates.
Natures creation from human grime
beauty and bird song from scene of crime.
Addict and thief have brought disgrace
to what was once so fine a place.
I hang my head in dismay and cry
and watch my home town rot and die.
So few jobs with the steelworks gone
and factories emptying one by one.
Desperate fathers steal, lie,
and drown deeper in debt as days go by,
caring less hour by hour,
of wonders like hills and lake and flower,
Greeness of valley or beauty of hills,
no portion of blue sky can heal their ills.
I wonder what, should be my plan.
Stay and fight it ... if I can.
Or spare my eyes this dismal sight
Pack family ... pack bags .. take flight.
©Ven.April.2003
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<a name="016">
The Accidental Mystic</a>
<center>
The Accidental Mystic.
Sheer luck, pure serendipity,
lead to the discovery
and provided the ability
to see into infinity.
she awoke with this anomaly
and thought it a catastrophe
not knowing the activity
would be in actuality,
not seen as abnormality,
or sign of some insanity.
So she smiled at the absurdity
and changed her plans accordingly.
©Ven.Apr.2003
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<a name="017">
Walking the Wisdom</a>
I got an email today from someone who was sent a copy of the original version of this a couple of years ago and spent ages trying to track down the author " Ven ". She saw a posting by VenPoet and figured that might be the same person and just sent me the first stanza to see if it was mine.
She said she's had a copy of it on her wall for the last year and I just had it filed away in a folder under the title "needs some re-working".
Anyway I figured fate was tring to tell me to get my ass into gear and sort it out.
So here goes ...
B.T.W. I know there is no such word as "Whispersome" but I like the sound of it and I figure if I keep on using it enough ... well who knows ?
Walking The Wisdom
They came to your village to burn your witches.
Not one word in defense, did you manage to say.
They took your eccentrics and locked them in cages.
You averted your eyes as they dragged them away.
They labeled your children as problem delinquents.
For having the courage to just disagree.
They took them to purpose built places of learning,
where they rendered them harmless and then set them free.
Made mindless drones and faceless no-ones.
they mingled well midst the hordes of the meak.
Just spirt dampened, silent cowards.
Forever afraid to stand and speak.
Each instilled with a mortal fear.
An abject terror of standing out.
Of admitting to having a single voice.
Of daring to use it ~ Of daring to shout.
Just shuffling onward from day to day.
Merging and melting within the crowd.
Their voices low and whispersome,
their heads hung low and eternally bowed.
So take your place, among them now
and if someday it should occur,
that someone points the finger your way
and accusingly shouts, "I think it's her !"
( Because you look abnormally tall or your skin is far too pale.
Your eyes are set a little deep and you bear the Devils mark.
Speak with a different accent, or tell a different tale.
Giggle ... when you break the rhyme
and dance alone in the dark ).
They invent for you a persona
of "damaged" and "cannot be healed".
The masses are told they are better than you
and your over and done. ~ Fate sealed !
You bend beneath their power.
Sentence passed ... in the blink of an eye.
They pronounce you guilty of not fitting in
and prove your defence a lie.
then, from deep within you find your voice,
knowing at last what it's for
~ but ironic sadness raises it's head
as your shouts make you stand out more.
Protesting, screaming, hysterical.
You watch your fate pan out
and beads of sweat appear on your brow
as the eyes of your friends fill with doubt.
You watch as whispers encircle the group.
See ties and loyalties sway.
as each of your trusted avert their eyes
and forsakingly look away.
Each searching for justification.
to ease the pain and guilt.
Each giving their pride as a sacrifice,
to this civilized world they have built.
And as for you in your final hour,
you deserve no axe to grind.
For you walked the walk in the very same shoes
when the witches and madmen were tried.
But a thought invaded my conscious mind
as you took your final breath.
I think your spirit placed it there
as it left this place of death.
It spoke with a quiet, yet confident voice,
as it passed it's knowledge on.
It said; "You could shout your message loud"
and "Sing your protest song"
for that role has it's place in the furtherment
of this, the Human race.
Yet, many who instigate
awsome changes never show their face.
What revolution requires of us
is to impart the truths we've found
and without discrimination,
share the knowledge around.
So I ... with my voice low and whispersome.
Without need to stand out, or be loud.
Will share the facts
with all I can ...
As I mingle
unseen in the crowd.
©Ven
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<a name="018">
On a Different Note</a>
I'm Hibberdy Bibberdy Dooblespatt.
There's kippers and custard
in my hat.
I wear a purple evening gown,
while I read the papers,
upside down.
I always eat my soup with a fork
and my suck wine
straight outta the cork.
I'm fat and I'm hairy
and a little bit scarey.
There's toys in my attic
and I'm off with the fairies.
But what you see is what you get.
You might perceive me
as a threat,
because I'm not the same as you
and I dont do things
the way you do,
But come,
be friends,
dont be so wary.
Sincerely yours,
The extraordinary.
...........
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<a name="019">
Hard Earned Immortality</a>
Fifty thousand souless tutors.
Time beaten, dusty jacketed philosophers.
Sat row upon row
waiting ...
to impart the facts
and the theroies.
Each one deathly silent.
Neither agreeing
nor disagreeing with the next.
No breath.
No heartbeat.
Just the waiting ...
Longing for a caressing hand,
a browsing eye
and an inquiring mind,
to seek out the gems
of humanities past.
Aching for the interest
of but one living soul,
to soak up,
ponder,
and quote their word,
thus sustaining
their well deserved
and hard earned
Immortality.
©Ven.May.2003
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<a name="020">
Short Time</a>
<center>
Short Time
As I sit and work.
Times flight ever increases.
Monday, Thursday.
August, January, June.
Next year becoming last year,
too soon.
~
Always too soon.
©Ven.Jan2003
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<a name="021">
The Navigator</a>
I'm a modern day explorer.
Oh ! the places I have seen.
I've experienced the views
from where few men have ever been.
From the very peak of Everest
and the crown of Makalu.
From the tip of the Lhotse
and the summit of K2.
I've been to space with Hubble
viewed the stars I so adore.
Seen the Horse Head Nebula
in the colours that she wore.
I've cruised the reefs in oceans depth
through waters clear and blue.
Seen the species dwindling,
where once so many grew.
I've travelled to the Amazon
and watched with pain and fear
as the cattle rangers desecrate
what we should hold so dear
and I'll never, ever, patronize
a burger bar again.
Since I learn that they would damn us all,
for a little financial gain.
I have visited many countries.
Tasted customs so diverse.
Been everwhere that man has been
in this whole universe.
By setting sail on the url's
powered by the technical age
and configuring my position
by the heading of the page.
©Ven.May.2003
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<a name="022">
Toward the Light</a>
The return journey seems so much faster
even thought I'm driving slow
and soaking up the beauty of the landscape
as I go
over one hill ... then another.
Past craggy outcrops
towering above the rolling green
and patchwork quilted vale.
I pause ...
as born free descendents
of worked hard pit ponies
amble across the road ahead,
blissfully unaware of the industrial shackles
that bound their forefathers.
and I smile.
The sun begins to set
slowly dipping her auburn flamed head
below the tip of the horizon.
Bathing my view
in a pink hue
of last minute day.
I'm almost there now.
The Buzzard on the fence post
glances in my direction
and emits an aura of knowing
as if she feels my disappointment
at having to climb this last hill
and clear its brow.
She tucks her head into her feathers
and settles for the night.
All too soon the wonder is gone,
with nothing to mark the occasion.
No signs to say "You are now leaving Paradise"
or "Welcome to Barter Town"
Yet, there they are !
the artificial lights of home.
Powered not by methane
but by metaphoric,
beaurocratic pig shit.
I check the rear view mirror
but all I see is blackness
and the question raised in my mind
is :
How can beauty become so dark
while this filth shines out
so bright ?
©Ven.May2003
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<a name="023">
A Masterstroke</a>
Piss and wind .. that's all it is.
over priced anthologies.
each a winner .. thats the biz.
tricked, and no apologies,
right ?
yes I know ... you got me good,
... done me up like a kipper.
caught me truly
off my guard.
my God ! You guys are slipper .. y.
Well, I guess the blame is mine.
hell ! ... I should have known.
a little naive is what I was.
this time I think I've shown
a little more imagination.
subtlety is the way.
can you see the message
a poet can convey.
Masterstroke !
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<a name="024">
24 hrs.</a>
They say that at this time tomorrow,
life here will come to and end.
You ask how I'd spend my last
twenty four hours
alright ..
I will tell you my friend.
I'd pray for the souls of my kin.
Say farewell, for I can't watch them die.
Fall to my knee's .. desolated.
Wring my hands.
and ask my God why ?
Dry my tears .. on the way to the bikeshop
and steal an Electra Glide.
Cruise to the beach
and sit on the sand
a pen and a pad at my side.
I'd write of the very last sunset,
Of the waves, the dunes and the sky.
I'd write of the wonders
of living.
whilst sitting there, waiting to die.
I'd write of love and beauty.
I'd write of hatred and death.
I'd write of my life's experiences,
from the first
to the very last breath.
I'd take out the knife from my pocket,
blade .. glinting in last rays of light.
I'd lay out my wraps on the sand
and ponder
the wrong and the right.
Then I'd cut, just to see what it feels like.
Jack smack , to understand .. WHY ?
Smoke crack cocaine, again and again
and get high.
All these things I would try.
I'd pop out one of my eyeballs,
for I've heard that this can be done.
I'd pierce my eyebrows and nipples
and tattoo
"F~CK OFF" on my tongue.
I'd doughnut the bike on the sand.
I'd yell and I'd shout and I'd rage
and now and again, I'd stop take my pen
and commit
how it feels to the page.
For the fear of death has prevented
the experience of so many things.
So I'd do all the sh~t that scares me
and I'd bask
in the freedom it brings.
I'd write of it all on my notepad
and as there'd be no-one to read,
it would matter not, how deep I dug,
how hard
I let my pen bleed
I'd compose an amazing last write,
that I'd sign and throw to the sea
and at twenty three, fifty nine,
fifty nine, I'd scream out,
"I'm done ..
TAKE ME !".
And I'd go ... with little regret,
when the sixtyth second came.
and all that I'd ask, if they'd got it all wrong
is that
Someone remember my name.
VEN.
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<a name="025">
A Rare Soul</a>
All her motives were benevolent
and she sought no recognition.
She simply found helping others
Exhilerating.
She arranged an exhibiton
of her poetry and art.
Entry was toll free
but those who came
gave with a generosity
nowadays seldom seen.
She founded www dot Care
and others came
and joined her there.
They organised events.
They'd moon walk for charity,
do anything to make a buck,
though they were always
diplomatic.
And the watchers were
responsive.
Digging deep into pockets
providing the green.
Not a totally organic experience
but the crisp
and folding green.
And her ...
She never tired.
She would have sold
the Sierra mist,
if she could have found
a buyer.
Her dream was lucid
but saddly unattainable.
How much of a dent
can one woman make
on world poverty
for goodness sake.
She disposed of all
her worldly goods.
Took her account
to the limit of redness
untill The listening bank
just stopped listening.
She sold her home.
Wandered alone through
grubby city streets
becomming the symbol of poverty
she had striven to irradicate.
Her only possessions
a jews harp,
A penny whistle
and a harmonica.
The sweet music she made
earned her enough to eat
anything left over
she gave to the poor.
I hear she died,
a year ago.
Found huddled
in a doorway
cardboard quilt inadequate
against the harsh and biting
January wind.
Her body died alone
but her soul I'm sure
resides in the city of God.
Among the elect
... in Zion.
by Ven.
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<a name="026">
A House Well Hidden</a>
Alexander Davey lived in a contemporary world.
Most of which exsisted in the confines of his mind.
Reality (a house well hidden)
was rarely now unfurled.
For drugs and booze had twisted him, leaving him resigned
to the fact that other people often viewed him with derision,
as he'd sit, grotesque,
in his grubby recliner,
watching television.
His only plans to guzzle beer, steep his life in whiskey
and shoot more crap
into his arm,
he knew that it was risky
but he'd passed the point of caring
swapped the lobster and champagne
for the cheque from social security
and junk in every vein.
A premature westerly sunset
was all that he had to show.
That ...
and a spartan concrete stone
his epitaph "Made in Glasgow".
©Ven.May2003
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<a name="027">
You Want Dark?</a>
You want Dark ?
Fine ... I'll give you dark.
I'll give you wake up at 4 a.m.
sweating and screaming in the
pitch blackness
type dark.
I'll give you pluck out your eyes,
tear out your heart,
rip out your own tongue
so that you can never
tell of the darkness
type dark.
I'll give you spawn of Satan,
twisted reality,
carved, bone handled knives in your soul
and life blood gushing from
your ripped and torn torso
type dark.
What ? ...
Your not ready ?
Oh ! OK.
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<a name="028">
The Ultimate Inheritance </a>
Handle with care, decide with wisdom,
for all around is unstable,
delicate, fragile and do not bend,
take your love and your hate to the table.
Be open and frank in discussion
and above all keep your head.
For anger precursors destruction
and then all of us end up dead.
Bubble wrap your freedom
and label "Protect At All Cost".
Only when it has been taken away
will you realize what you've lost.
Cherish your right to free speech.
Hold your tongue when you've nothing to say.
Think of the fool that rushes in,
where angels fear to stray.
Contemplate each decision,
act only if there is merit,
and for Gods sake remember WE choose the world
that our childrens children inherit.
©Ven.July2001.
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<a name="029">
They Made Me Crazy </a>
Drenched,
soaked
and dripping enthusiasm,
I walked in
like the queen of the panet.
Flat,
deflated,
brought down with a bump,
I walked
out,
Beaten ... God damn it.
Drove
home,
sad and rejected.
I drank
tea
and considered my choices.
Kill 'em
all,
that would make me feel better.
Then plead
insanity
on account of the voices.
©Ven.Sept2003
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