a poem for today, 14 June 2012

a poem for today, 14 June 2012
[a syllable sorted sonnet of nine sentences and its image]
If you want to really hurt me, talk badly about my language.
I usually try to keep my sadness pent up inside where it can fester quietly as a mental illness. 
Compassion, guilt, empathy - they're irrelevant.
How small you've become.
All I can do is pass the gift.
It's the job of the young to push the societal envelope.
Somewhere without language, or streets.
Only pick your own locks or you could really get into a lot of trouble.
I don't know about you but that sounds totally unsexy over here.

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