La pomme, c'est moiIt is me, The bright red apple With apple blemishes dotting My smooth exterior And with soft bruises inside. I live the apple life On a shelf somewhere Taken off the tree, Then off the shelf, Not knowing that I have died.
press mei, the pressed flower, with a flat mockery of life colorful yet dead. observable yet unreal. press me in your pages, pages of a big book, like a dictionary... define me, quantify me... press me in your book. preserved for the ages, until warranting another look, like ancient, broken pottery, define me, classify me, press me in your book.
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Effervescent EffortClearly stumbling into brambles Picking myself up Dusting myself off Pulling out the thorns My mind fizzes like soda My dreams and fantasies Popping like bubbles That rise to the surface And vanish when seen. I try so hard Perhaps too hard it seems Or perhaps not at all Hiding behind a curtain Of dreams and hopes Not as real as the pain That I feel while stumbling Into brambles and watching the thorns Pierce the bubbles that are my dreams.
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