All this world is about,
whether your tarred with some
brush or other,
So what will you do?
I mean is it your destiny,
to fall - by the wayside?
I mean 'crime' really suits U,
Imagine your acts
resonating & rippling,
hemmed into infinity,
devoid of purpose,
and imagine all the jobs,
because of this...
a particular art is required,
when throwing this 'self' away,
when everything around you
is reduced to material worth or money,
where is the real proof?
until the empty void beats me,
I cannot breath in this place,
because you've made such an art
with forced heads, raised eyes,
smiles turning corners, unbecoming...
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Comments about this poem (Mearns St. by GRANT FRASER )
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