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Literature Text
Whisper, whisper,
Into the underground,
Into the grit,
Into the grime,
Whisper into
The dark ugly night,
But whatever you do
Don't let him see
You're dealings and tradings
In these unsavory streets.
Big brother, big brother,
Goes bump in the night,
Big brother, big brother,
Oh, what a fright!
Don't let him snatch you
Or he'll lock you up tight!
He'll shut you up
In cold dark cell
Where you'll wish for a moment
Out of this hell,
Walls painted white
And paper thin bed,
And hardly a pillow
For your sad aching head.
Nothing will stop
The anger burning your soul red.
Big brother, big brother,
Where are you now?
Are you near? Are you hear?
Is your face twisted
In a crooked old frown?
I know what you think,
You bag of bones,
They're drugs that I'm buying
That I'll smoke somewhere alone,
That I'll be violent and crazy
And hurt someone good,
But I've got nothing so devious
Stirring under my hood.
The truth of the fact,
The matter of sorts,
Is he's my friend and we're talking
Of the world's good and bad and worse,
But it's talking, just talking, a chatter of things
That are and that were and coming into being.
But we've seen you peer beneath your brow
Considering the things the law doesn't allow
And hoping we'll slip,
Slip some drugs through our fingers,
And so your gaze falls upon us and lingers.
Big brother, big brother,
Goes bump in the night,
Big brother, big brother,
Oh what a fright!
Don't let him snatch you
Or he'll lock you up tight.
And have you ever heard
A mad man's screams?
It's so much worse
Than it looks on TV.
You want to help him
Or quiet him or even darker-
To kill,
And not even for the sake of the thrill,
Just for a single moment of peace,
Just to get a damn minute of sleep,
Even on your rock solid cot
Or even in solitary,
Where your brain might start to rot.
At least it's not those horrible cries
Of a man who thinks he'll be heard
Though there isn't a caring soul in sight.
You might try and pretend you're a monk,
Contemplating eternity
From the quiet of your bunk,
But they'll always remind you
You aren't worth as much
As a creature who's soul
Is so harmonically touched.
You aren't even worth
Enough to own things,
All your pleasant memories
Are now the stuff of dreams.
Whisper whisper
Hush as you can,
But careful not
To anger "The Man".
Into the underground,
Into the grit,
Into the grime,
Whisper into
The dark ugly night,
But whatever you do
Don't let him see
You're dealings and tradings
In these unsavory streets.
Big brother, big brother,
Goes bump in the night,
Big brother, big brother,
Oh, what a fright!
Don't let him snatch you
Or he'll lock you up tight!
He'll shut you up
In cold dark cell
Where you'll wish for a moment
Out of this hell,
Walls painted white
And paper thin bed,
And hardly a pillow
For your sad aching head.
Nothing will stop
The anger burning your soul red.
Big brother, big brother,
Where are you now?
Are you near? Are you hear?
Is your face twisted
In a crooked old frown?
I know what you think,
You bag of bones,
They're drugs that I'm buying
That I'll smoke somewhere alone,
That I'll be violent and crazy
And hurt someone good,
But I've got nothing so devious
Stirring under my hood.
The truth of the fact,
The matter of sorts,
Is he's my friend and we're talking
Of the world's good and bad and worse,
But it's talking, just talking, a chatter of things
That are and that were and coming into being.
But we've seen you peer beneath your brow
Considering the things the law doesn't allow
And hoping we'll slip,
Slip some drugs through our fingers,
And so your gaze falls upon us and lingers.
Big brother, big brother,
Goes bump in the night,
Big brother, big brother,
Oh what a fright!
Don't let him snatch you
Or he'll lock you up tight.
And have you ever heard
A mad man's screams?
It's so much worse
Than it looks on TV.
You want to help him
Or quiet him or even darker-
To kill,
And not even for the sake of the thrill,
Just for a single moment of peace,
Just to get a damn minute of sleep,
Even on your rock solid cot
Or even in solitary,
Where your brain might start to rot.
At least it's not those horrible cries
Of a man who thinks he'll be heard
Though there isn't a caring soul in sight.
You might try and pretend you're a monk,
Contemplating eternity
From the quiet of your bunk,
But they'll always remind you
You aren't worth as much
As a creature who's soul
Is so harmonically touched.
You aren't even worth
Enough to own things,
All your pleasant memories
Are now the stuff of dreams.
Whisper whisper
Hush as you can,
But careful not
To anger "The Man".
Literature
The memiors of a poet...
A poet is no mere
artist, that incites and writes,
- but dares to
fabricate, the nothings into
- - extrasensory realities,
beyond all imagination.
Like a painter,
the poet needs oil & ink,
- to set the eyes
and mental capacity,
- - into a hypnotized state
of suggestive attention.
As a quilter,
the poet weaves
- embroidered tapestries
with spectrum;
- - that only prisms
could master -
- - - with simple imagery.
The poet revives,
the deadened, flat soul
- of sentence,
to have a personified
- - existence among our
world of third dimension.
The poet's life,
isn't just a joy
- but a pain;
to tell the world
- - from their hands
littered with
Literature
For the First Time
I opened my eyes today
Really opened them
It was like seeing the sky
For the first time in my life
Noticing the depth of its blue
Seeing the silver lining in the clouds
They seemed to fit together
Almost like puzzle pieces
I saw how the breeze guided them
On an endless journey where
The destination was unknown
I saw birds soar on its stream
And trees swoon at its caress
I watched it cut patterns in the water
And send dragonflies spiraling the skies
Then the blue ocean overhead grew golden
Gilded in the flaxen color of the sun and
Encrusted with dew drops still in the clouds
I saw the sky for the first time today
And I was f
Literature
River Dream
Where I exist, the seasons linger or
die too soon.
I cannot see the subtle changes, or
hear the cadence of their wings.
I feel the shift and taste the residue
between our lips,
and on the air where it also lingers.
His passing will bring the rain but
I covet him more, suspended as we are
between the seasons.
And when dusk is touched by the brows
of moths, he will fade away,
a harbinger of autumn's end before it
begins, while I drift a river dream
over which a new moon ascends.
An oar dips silently and I shiver.
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Is it really as bad as that? Not for most people probably, but for some people it seems to be true.
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Its interesting