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Dec 29, 2010

Buried Alive

Buried alive,
Under the embodiments of my life
Scattered onto haphazard paper
A sheet cuts into me, as sharp as a knife;
Stemming the flow of ruby-red blood
With a cruel glance at the thin gash
Profanities arrange themselves on my lips
As I search for the sheet, amongst the stack.

Buried alive,
With edges that glint with sadistic happiness
Is the artwork of a past much forgotten,
A photograph, the reason for my curt snappiness;
But pain momentarily forgotten,
Running time-beaten fingers over the colours
That paint the youth of a pleasurable past,
A past full of summers, perusing bestsellers.

Buried alive,
Is irony. For under the plethora of age,
Is a time machine imprinted on paper
A photograph, a Past that paper does en-cage.
And as a flood of memories take me back
To when our minds were innocent, when love was pure,
The blood oozes vehemently from the papercut
Oh and I felt something peculiar, of that I'm sure.

For a moment, it's as if the cut is punishment
A punishment well deserved,
A mockery of the strange, shapeless mass life becomes
As age and life fuse to appear absurd.
If the surface of the photograph were magical,
What wouldn't I give to dive into it,
And appear, suddenly, in the world it depicts
And escape this existence that degrades bit by bit.

Buried alive are the memories
We wish we could personify.
Buried alive is a life
Full of mistakes we wish to rectify.


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