June 28th 2014

What is the world to me,
But a mistaken symphony?

A platform for the feelings I wish I had never felt,
The antagonist for a hatred that is a victim of itself.

Sunday afternoon, the rush still fakes a purpose –
Silver and gold circles to people without a voice.

Itchy, navy v-neck sweater sighs, after a long seat on his pancake ass,
And I sigh with the futility of it as I’m in an empty home at last.

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