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Reflections of the Living Dead (Other) by SomeKindofPoet

Two tired eyes that fail to sleep, Two crying eyes that fail to weep, Two bloodshot eyes that fail to see The worthless lies you sang to me. And here I’m mourned in sad lament For all the days ‘twere wasted spent On fools and jobs and worthless things Like pearl balls and diamond rings. To me is sung the funeral song For such a life which died so long ago. Perhaps one day you’ll learn and see That all you ever did to me Was lead me to a life I hate Where now I’ve died a reprobate, Loving that I’ve hated still While laid to rest upon the hill Where wasted lives are littered there Under headstones worn coarse and bare. Perhaps one day I’ll rise from death And breathe again that precious breath That fills these bags of flesh and blood With life and love and all that should Have been the thing to drive this brain Before it thought that it could change Into a beast to never die No matter how you’d ever try To hurt it, beat it, leave it dead By all the piercing things you said. But here I lay, the living dead, Blood pumping, still, into my head, Where thoughts and hopes and all my dreams Remain entrapped behind my seams.

zodiac 21-May-04/6:05 AM
The worst thing about this poem isn't that it's about religion. It's that you're either A) the world's biggest failure for allowing yourself to remain "reprobate" when you know how you should act/believe to be saved, or B) the world's biggest failure for presuming to know what reprobates think when you are not, in fact, one of them.

If A) better describes you, why don't you just take control of your life, you ninny? If B) is closer to the truth (and I'll bet it is) why don't you write about something you actually know instead of casting your exceedingly self-righteous presumptions around like swollen buttocks? As it happens, I'm probably utterly reprobate, and yet my life isn't anything like this. In fact, every reprobate I know isn't like that. In any event, in your current form, you fail.




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