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In short Haikus, my whittled limbs will teach you things with apoplectic certainty. Their crawlspace is so limited, they trim the fat off easy meat. Rattled brainwaves of a tear; tumble at the slightest trauma breaking concentration’s tail. I’ve earned a right to moodiness, but hate that state of mind so much, I’d rather live in busy fits of fast denial than wear solicitude of weak. Sumptuary laws of pride determine effort’s solemn shape. Struggle is one floating plight infecting every way I turn-- but I would kiss it French-tongue style in lieu of losing art of motion even in its limping curse. Harm’s way fashions repertoires of ugly shame, but also stacks thick courage bricks. I study hard discomfort of the universe; scratch firm trouble in my shorts. The sex of one successful step behind the rocks of ones collapsed. Try’s mortar is a muted shade but never moot. Its firm erection rules the earth. (To copy or translate this poem, please contact its author) TRANSLATOR and ILLUSTRATOR WANTED FOR THIS PAGE
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