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"Then Die, my verse!"

many prophets have failed

failed poets and poet-murderers
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The Poet

You're withdrawing from me, you hour.
The beating of your wings leaves me bruised.
Alone: what shall I do with my mouth?
with my night? with my day?

I have no loved one, no house,
no place to lead a life.
All the things to which I give myself
grow rich and spend me.

-R.M. Rilke

Poems, stories, thoughts, observations, complaints, and grievances.

All coffeehouse suicides are welcome here.

Post anything you want.
And feel free to offend anyone you want.
We're all entitled.