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"Hey," she said, as she kicked her gray sneakers off and tossed her bag on the floor.
"How's it goin'?" I asked. She looked down at the floor, then back at me. She was wearing her dark brown knitted hat.
"Not so good." She just sort of stood there in her pale socks. Her tiny dark freckles were clear on the porcelain of her skin. Her black eyes, not quite looking at anything, but looking at me, were sad and...lost. I leaned forward and put
Life is some kind of hideous machine
Lungs pumping air into me like a bellows
My heart a ticking time bomb in my chest
I am too aware of what I am
Caught in an illusion of time
A paradox, I am dead
Must be why I'm so cold
From the inside out
I don't sleep anymore
Because I'm not real
I have been asked multiple times recently why it is that I don't post more feedback on personal poems and stories. My answer is that there are days when I do, and there are days when I feel my mood may be too black or sarcastic to objectively give my opinion.
My thinking is that all writing should be encouraged because, even if it's terrible, it's practice for more writing. If I'm going to offer criticism, I want it to be supportive. I hope no one feels like I'm ignoring their work.
Thanks to the inspiration of my artistic, compassionate peers, I'm feeling very well this evening.
I have a general unease over the extreme individualism taking place in my country right now. I think certain things are total illusions cooked up by civilization; money, security, debt, ownership. I wish everyone could have a fair shake. I might feel this way as long as I live, but it's good to know there is still love in this world, and some of it spills onto me.