F U C K E D  U P  C O L L E G E  K I D S
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               - t h e  p o e t r y  v e n t u r e -
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       let me tell you a quick story. last week, burned out and
       overworked, i collapsed in my bathroom. the doctor said
       it was exhaustion. so i called in sick, turned off all of
       my monitors, and spent 3 days reading. literally. i never
       left except to eat and drink. words can save your soul. so
       turn off your computer and read something that is printed
       on dead trees. your mind and body will thank you for it.

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       To come back to the one,
       What a loving thought.
       To erase human error,
       In which we have fought.
       To reach enlightenment,
       While on this earthly plane.
       To find peace in a world,
       That seems so insane.
       To walk by an ocean,
       And feel my soul take flight.
       To look into your eyes,
       And see tha shining light.
       This is my prayer;
       That all hearts would feel...
       The love of the divine,
       That is so real.

       sadia



       ORGANIC EMOTION

       moods sift through a sieve
       to extract the seedy pulp
       allowing naked feelings
       to explain their genitalia

       Indiana Poet    Dec. 27, 1997



       Someone's Watching Over Me

       Someone's watching over me,
       for it was said, if I would take a step,
       in this colony, I never would breathe again.

       Looking out over the cars,
       that line the streets like ants,
       I know someone must be,
       watching over me.

       Walking along, a pebble rolls ahead,
       just as I was told my head would,
       if I were to ever attempt
       to walk this line.

       Breathing in and breathing out,
       I wonder if someone is copying my every move,
       or is it I am just lucky enough,
       to have someone watching over me?

       Kamira



       Hypocrite!

       All poetry sucks. No talent, eccentric
                                      fucks.
       subjective creativity is not art
       and does not hold meaning.

       Anyone can scribble, we can all force
                                     rhymes.

       So what makes 'good' poetry. If
       YOU like it. Nothing else. Like
       beauty
                       it is in the eye
                       of the beholder. Simple
                       as that as my
                       pen runs dry.

                               Damn.



       i've been lashing in the dark
       just to feel your broken heart
       and my mind goes racing down
       and the tears touch to my frown
       i have not heard you say my name
       for life is all a game

       won't you come out side with me
       we will find the abandoned tree
       here we sit inside the day
       just waiting for the rain
       then the night comes out again
       for this is now our end

       rage



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       (c) Copyright. All poems copyright by original author.
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       F O U N D E D:                         October 30, 1997