Secrets Playing Like Films - Poem by GRANT FRASER
I made it back to the inside,
the few things I actually know
are of little consequence,
and the air smells like shit!
The boredom of doing everything
right seems appalling,
and bad revolutionary paint
is bled out into culture,
It will always sell, but has
Yet boredom creates a space
unlike any other, and is somewhat
A fact, that you might not die
with a smile on your face, after all,
has all but ruined the idea of how
to leave it...
We can't take it back, nor with us,
and our guilts are stacked up like
future nails for the big day,
So when an unusual thought moves
through us we panic,
But there is a fixation,
The moment of actual death
and to what extent, our last
thought might be?
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