Roughly as poetic as a bag of smashed arseholes.







Scribble back.


Thursday, 18 November 2010

5. The past

The past is a strange place
As open to interpretation as a dream;
It’s determined through Freudian analysis
‘Though events are concrete
Yet as subjective as an anonymous note;
There’s never an author to explain what they wrote
It’s a place where nothing is as it seems
It’s a place I long to be

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