Color: drabWhy so angry? May it be your hands around my neck and legs that is frantically pushed up against the wall, the breath that smells so sour that the clock has been three in the morning for ever now. Why so quiet? he wonder and harden the skin over his mouth. But It hurts no longer to be pushed into of the forms in order to fit in the holes, it's just numbness in the facial muscles and I can only see the world in black and white and opaque and includes pieces from Schindler's lists soundtrack. It is not fingers that you push under the jaw bone, it's doubt, and do you know how it sounds in my head when nerve signals collides on the way to reason? It sounds like noise and blows, it feels like heat and incipient unconsciousness.
Poetry by Sofia
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Written on 2010-11-25 at 14:04
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