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    I cry these wet tears
    but the tears are not my own
    your whiskered feathers
    that scratches away my innocence
    and shower me with volatile indifference
    eat away at the beginning
    of the very first step I have taken
    your dreary eyes that seep
    into my skin so provactively
    is now the doom of my entirety
    my demise is not my own
    it is a sanction of all that once held beauty
    until the illuminating light diminished
    and left us for a darker day
    that slowly shed away our layers
    that was bound within us all
    the voices that lifted us up
    are now the voices that carry our sins
    rebuke us not for the farther we travel
    the less the meaning of life endures
    my sanction is not my shield
    it is only the remake of my lost self
    lost in the midst of it all
    all that succumbs to me
    will be bitten off and then chewed
    by a force unspeakable, and ubale to name
    nameless as I am
    I cannot pursue the road that urges me forth
    I must not abide by this
    It is the carrier of all that is evil pursues
    for now it seems I have lost all
    and won nothing in return
    you cannot grant me my wishes
    for the wishes that I want to grant
    are so far gone that even if you took the time
    to listen and speak, I would not heed your advice
    I am farther than you are
    I cannot speak unless spoken to
    I am being taken over by the forces I cannot name
    They come to me in the night
    and take control of my mind and soul
    I am lifted up to a place where I dare not say
    it is for the good of all
    that I remain calm and quiet
    and pretend through all of this
    I am just dreaming
    for the sins that I have created
    will only come back and haunt me in the end
    and I would rather leave alone
    than to have a follower in my path
    guiding my every move
    but never knowing my desire.

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Jessi’s Poems (1)

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