Friday, July 12, 2013

June 14, 2013


My circumstances wrought by no other
Than the disheveled mess I hesitate to call a woman,
This disordered soul that Augustine said is my punishment.

I believed I could call forward Hell and tame it;
Thought I could waste away in the basement
Of my mind
I so often abuse
With an excess of poetry, and then chemically induce
To try to see things as they really are.

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