Here's that poem. I can't remember who wrote it. I found it in the front of a book. Some of the words may be misspelled.
No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main; if clods be washed away by the sea, Europe is the loess, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manner of thy friends or of thine own were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.
thats not the whole write i believe. i believe it's from a prose write called Mediation 17, if it's not then it's very similar
ill make one up right now on the spot.
shallow the palm of fathers pride
as the list exceeds i sit and wait
to base my steps on former ghosts
upon whose time i intend to waste
so recieve enclosed a right to learn
a passage of which i resign
between dividing lines housed by words
to form that i can not describe.
took me about 10 minutes
i can usually write poetry all the time
every current state is palatable into writting in my opinion.
i hate poems about faux-pas, pseudo-emotion like:
cutting my darkness like a knife in the hand of my heart
you broke me down and i scream in the rain
and i wear my sorrow like a mask at a parade of parents
but nothing you can do can stop this pain.
despite how my poetry skills show, the topic and empty metaphors make me feel sick.
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