06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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This walk through the park
and we never climb these trees.
We could, you know.
No one’s ever around to object
and the trees would passively bear our weight.
But we never even touch them,
their jagged bark, lest it shatter our world.
There’s something in our minds
that gives us the need
to preserve this detachment.
You’ve had your bouts with suicide.
It is, of course, the ultimate removal.
It’s just that sometimes
I want to look down from up high on a branch,
though I might see nothing new at all.
I’m scared of extremes.
And so are you.
But sometimes I want to hear you say
that you want to give in.
There are trees in the park that are dead,
dried, broken limbs hanging precariously,
and we’re sympathetic.
Disease. The world has killed them
and no one has tried to cure it.
We sit in the path.
You turn to tell me
that life is a disease. Frustration.
But I’m skeptical. I don’t want to hear this anymore
spoken from flattened ground.
It’s too much pain.
Maybe I should tell you that
there’s only one way to cure it, my friend.
And look what it’s done for the trees.
--Molly Herrick 01.16.03
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