Odds in life

in poem •  last year 

It’s a fix to nix the soothsayers
These conveyors of newness
Are simply out of tune-ness
And must be edited away
From the average anal day
So they don’t make waves
Luring slaves into originality.

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Odds are stacked against the wall
Of indifference that palls the will
Still trying to believe in skill
Inside a torrent of grieving
For the death of believing
No longer attending or ascending
The mending heights of inspiration

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