Wednesday, November 10, 2004

worshipping the past,
bowing down to idols made by your own hands
much more polished these days,
not rough hewn from clay but engraved,
handpainted
yet still, dead servitude,
taking the form of that faint red glow that never leaves your heart
that haunts the upper rooms of your house,
lives on your doorsteps
bound by duty
fear the traditions you dare not abandon
the ways that keep you tangled in death

charlotte oke

posted by Unknown @ 1:51 PM

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tell me no lies

Poetry has always been, at least for me, an outlet of honest expression. Our perspectives often become blurred by our circumstance and the difference between what is truth and what is merely what we feel can sometimes become difficult to determine. But poetry is a sweet expression of us trying to comprehend the world around us, trying to comprehend life, circumstance, emotion. It can be theraputic, it can be freeing, it can date a period in our lives, and it can give others a glimpse of us that they may have never seen. So share a poem, send me your story, give me a picture (I'll do my best to put it on), send it to godsbutterfli@gmail.com; share your honest expression here, and tell me no lies.

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