Still Going
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It is a funny world. And no one can tell me different.
I think about a lot of things ?
Things that nobody likes.
I don?t even like them.
But I think about them.
I am bleeding.
Invisible blood.
Emotional flood.
Feeling is like dying.
The more you do it, the more you hate it and the more you do it some more.
Many times happiness is a notion prepared to show you the contrary on the deathbed.
I feel and I die every day.
Now I have more things to worry about.
Going back into the world of the working and weary.
Becoming double eye bleary.
Second shift at home awaits and runs and screams and grows.
In other dimensions I bury my nose,
Or in a book of good prose.
The curse of the cursor, impatient and relentless.
To and fro with every second precisely matched.
Telling me to do more, you should be working.
Like a hollow, hollow, man.
They won?t know about me by chance.
They will have to take one for themselves.
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© wakefield brewster, 2001-09-28
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