| by Diggs Sexton © 10/8/1998 I am a . . . shell, . . . thing of naught, . . . mere figment of God's imagination. Happiness is hollow, . . . a invalid dream. Cosmic nihility fills . . .. . . my mind, . . .. . . a perpetual void. I am . . . unsubstantiated, . . . not lonely, . . . omitted. There is no proof. |
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| by Diggs Sexton © 10/14/1998 Emit your feelings from the summit, the truth out or'e the ocean. Wisdom, secret of the poet, thank you Neruda, Byron, Johnson, for being there. Now I know it, true poetry is emotion. Feelings, true feelings inspire the poet to write from the core. When passion burns from desire, addicted, the poet wants more, and his core ignites into fire, sensations he can not ignore. I have become cliché, redundant, unhappy, but grateful to you, for songs inspired of love desperate, beautiful, passionate, blue. Destined to be the love malade poet, for you, who could be loved true. |
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| by Diggs Sexton © 10/19/1998 I have no more words, . . . was absurd to believe they had; . . .. . . merit, . . .. . . meaning. My words- . . . are wanting, . . . not enough to win a heart, . . . bitter to the taste. I am; . . . the poet of ruin, . . . self-destruction, . . . madness. |