It’s nice to meet your old despair
–listen granny–to say
–what happened
you’ve grown handsome
not sniffling anymore
you’re no longer like a devil born bitter
wounds have healed
the rain cleansed you
One can get to love a shrew while she’s still alive


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Still you’re grasping personal happiness by the hair
Stashing away in just about any jar
Keeping a journal which means a monument to yourself
That’s why the air feeds you scantily
Invisible hands don’t guide you
What is grand won’t come against your will
All this ache in vain—cause you wouldn’t die
If you can’t let go of yourself
How could you gain everything

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Don’t sugar coat religion
Don’t rub out its parts

Don’t dress it up in pink angel rags
Fluttering above the war
Don’t send the believers to a tooting commentary
I’m not here for consolation like a bowl of soup
I wanted to rest my head at last on
The boulder of faith

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Huge little one

they pursue massive faith when despair is massive
they pursue saints who know it for sure
how far away best to run from one’s own body

and you have moved mountains
walked on water
though you told the believers
there’s still so much I don’t know yet

— little faith

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