It's hit me on the head,
This is it...
This is my life...
I would cry
If I weren't so depressed about it.
I'm a snail,
All soft and slimy and hiding in a shell,
Wandering about the landscape
Holding onto the stems of things.
All the feeling excited about life has slowed.
No more flashes of lightening bolts jazzing up the night-
The ones that say, 'Yeah man, this is it! '
These are almost gone.
I suppose I see my soul has died.
All souls have gone extinct, and
We're just little wads of flesh
Alien to our infinite nature-
Maybe scabs on the limbs of old truths now dead.
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Comments about this poem (Today by Summer Shaw )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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