Life itself
It was not a day of grey blankness
A soft and fuzzy life manifesting itself
People would give it names and descriptions had it been seen
Categorizing it to death
But taking its place in the dirt, on a rock
A perfect part of a whole
And nobody needing to use it

Room with the Yellow Light
Blistering monochromatic yellow
Light carving out and eliminating emotions
Leaving sickly grey husks, standing and perversely moving
As if they were alive
Dry grey-green corn husk skins
That room, I hate it
It makes me sick
<div><strong>Hyperactive </strong></div>
<div>This is a self-referential poem written in <em>HyperText Markup Language</em></div>
<div>For all to see.</div>

Light Rain

It’s raining and raining

But the ground isn’t getting wet

Which means that the rain must be composed of something other than water

It could be droplets of light cascading down and dispersing upon impact

Perhaps this is what is meant by “light rain”

I go outside to feel those lightdrops falling on my cheeks

I open my mouth to them and I am filled with light

Until the corporal me is displaced

And now I am in constant motion

Beneath this flower lies a poem of cultural opposition:



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