Wednesday, February 10, 2010


My brave new fake hope
in my cobwebbed mind
saw you 've returned again
thin voice like thunder
in all though vain
suppliant of continuity
in an unbearable life
common for all, diachronic liar
for all the modern stressed
full of thorns plants
training in a school of nothing
for a future of better intakes
financially of course.
Hope whore you annoy me
you 're a present disease
you walk around our streets
you paint everything in pink
while heaven awaits
six billion suicide victims...

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