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by Elysha Schneider, usa, age 14

johnny never met his candyman,
but died beneath the drugs;
televised eradication, blood thirsty vegeans, idols lost in ideals of

a million michael jordan's are inherent to this one massive mob of johnny.
he's stolen my pens, he and his air, his chaotic misplaced dreaming;
writing sanity into the geniuss book of world records,
under sports.

mother mary still begs to prod down our throats,
love in lies...of lies...of lies --

were left desolated in this overcrowded nation,
ingesting everything that mothers cradle rocking hand beholds,
and thriving off of nothing, nothing at all.
so many johnny's.
so many bibles.
so many empty pages smothered with knocking conformity.

so they ask themselves:
what now to decapitate, atomize, improve our improvements on improving?
and my paper burns to ashes, imprinting the flame of neglected youth,
on every fucking polluters back,
thus they throw their lives to the floor, spitting, and bleeding;
begging mr. trump for dollar;
seeking vitality in bongs.

veridicality has come with malfunction; illusion.

we have devised the system.
we have slit johnny's wrist.

emotion lies to remain, and deface itself.