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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 10:32:37 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 77794
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The opressant
[time] => 2004-12-30 17:32:45
[hometext] => I've been meaning to publish this on the internet for some time - battling depression as a teenager - took 3 years to write fully
[bodytext] => Chocked, with a rope round my neck I, I feel I cannot express the words that I so desire to express – not one soul on the Styx on which my jarred wrist lies, heeds my calls as I write, am I right to receive an answer or do I write to write, write a quip to someone, someone may listen and sit, and might impossibly understand. Tears are for the strong: I am weakening. Away into utter depravity, utter loneliness, what good is it that I smile and wink and make the rude, full-scale joke for the passing colours of our time. You are the one who is falling away, or is it I, who am I? Am I? Am I still? I hesitate and blunder and err in the face of misfortune still, that ghastly glimmer of the ghost agape with garrulous garrulity is a waste – O but ev’ry word is mine, and only mine, and I live for That! I live for living to love and be loved and yet: is looking liking loving liking to look? It is impossible to tell, or rather, I am impossible to tell - much what I profess to you, dear reader, is what I cannot tell. But I seek to tell, to learn, to discover: That. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 245 [topic] => 64 [informant] => rpnsk [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => ambiguous )
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