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by Joe Robertson
I see you flailing on the ground trying not to make a sound of wounds and broken spirit to the ones who wish to hear it. I can see. I can see. I can hear your voice call I can see them, and see it all like a shattered naked fall onto the ground and still you make no sound. And there will be someone like me who comes along and will be enough to help you fly, fix your broken wings, just enough to save your life. And again, you'll soar away from sight, and again you'll soar so high. So, why can't I?
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by Joe Robertson
Gone are the days of innocence where we lived our lives, no consequence and even if they never made much sense, they were ours. We shared split-lip cigarettes at a bus stop that even time forgets like a Polaroid or a joke that no one gets because they were ours and the next group will have their own. Even the places where the young lips meet now will be new, among the grass and morning dew. In the place that I first met you. This place was ours. |
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May 2021
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