An American Sonnet This is my land, this is your land. It is this land that I love. Oh how those sapphire mountains sing with their smoke. Every biome of nature is represented. From the jungles of Hawaii, to the Taigas of Alaska. This is the land where nature gave its most bounty. Where even the deadly Mojave inspires beauty. It is a land so beautiful that murder was committed in its aquisition. This is a land stained with the blood of countless. Where those first here were shot and tagged, where those forced to build it were beaten, where beauty is destroyed for profit. These are my hands, these are your hands, red with blood. Poem I don’t know how to write poetry, and I don’t know how to read it really. I don’t understand the lack of plot, I really don’t understand why they all just feel a lot I don’t get form over prose, I really don’t get not knowing which way the story goes. I really don’t like having to think about how every little thing is tied up in kinks. Why on ea...
The cold handcuffs grind against the bones of my skinny wrists. I struggle against the guards, but not for the purposes of escape, it’s just that they are a fair bit taller than me, and it is hard to walk when you are being lifted in the air by your armpits. They seemed to have picked up on my discomfort, as they put me down and held onto me by the collar of my shirt. Though this was not a courtesy, they just knew I would move along quicker if I could walk. At last, we come to the visitation room, and the one who came to see me is already there. In that cold grey room, a single window behind him is the only source of dim light, he almost looks like a silhouette. I am handcuffed to my chair across the table from him, he asks the guards to leave, they comply, and our conversation begins. “We found another one of your victims,” says my Detective, as he pulls out a manilla envelope from the suitcase at his feet. “I confessed to all my victims already, there are no more for you ...
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