Thursday, November 29, 2012


We beat around bushes,
afraid of what they would say.
We stab ourselves with euphemisms,
and then we pass away.
Before drowning in an oasis of judgemental looks,
noticing only the cover and not the whole book.
Imagine putting quicksand in an hourglass,
and you don't know if it's oxygen you're breathing,
or just a dose of laughing gas.
Try taking a camel out of the desert,
then look at its face, full of anguish, inert.
Watch him as he desperately tries to let go
of the urge to suddenly become a John Doe.

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