I fashioned on a wall.
Down with anything.
Never had the mind to speak
what I really felt.
All that I dealt with,
was coming up through the years.
Breeding something that I never knew.
Became a bungalow of what I've been
through the years. Hanging pictures
in a pile of rubble. Need a muzzle to
shut up forever like if stupid it needs
then it bothers. Like silver is golden.
With little pride and dignity.
I gathered my things and said to hell
my adieu to all that surround me.
But it gave me silioque for what dwell
it brought was little irony.
That had a fashion to murder and kill,
and bring out of season. To hang pictures
of poises and deviled eggs.
There was a million little fibers
that met each other brief.
In the time they knew the
wall was weak they do anything.
To see it creek, and hear it scream.
Smoking cigarettes down the creek.
They wanted the graphitti to stink.
This is suicide for
the smiling trees.
Hanging pictures of
haunting the rooms
Making room for your
A puzzle of paint,
what color doesn't matter.
Hanging pretty poises
on the walls with nails in
the black paint.
The frames are different
and yet they frame nothing.
Hanging pictures are devotions.
Like the oceans drowning my days
apart of your notion.
I am hanging pictures of you and me.
Telling myself that I don't matter to me.
Hanging my past like a globe of power-scope.
Sphere that holds no ordinance.
No order, it's beyond evocation.
It is my final solution it is decorations
my time not considered the past time I made it
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