Congested a modern poem

Congested a poem with words that I have never told.

Memories are too short like new walls build by us.
They’re following us everywhere but departing from our mind.
It is the sublime beauty of our time. It’s a fake democracy.
Water flowing like a stone roll out, catch the wind.

The ice cream is good but, be careful you can’t eat it so fast could be congested your stomach. One time the black it was a colour of dead now it’s walking. Like its stepbrother. Garden dwarfs whit red hat. Left? The sky ‘s still blue colour while the streets are covered with shame.

Heroes dressed by ghosts, our 4th March it will be their 4th July welcome to the dark parade. What about us? Congested from by our inadequacy to being someone?

Nature is live, it is moving, the man suffocate.
We scatter noxious seed, how we sell a gun, and we are grateful for that. We are too much, and the place is small.

Heady words have been spent. Indeed the fools singing and dancing over our head. Say it first. Congested.

Unsure hand drawing roads, fools men follow it while the faith decides for you. It flows like water, like blood in your veins. The time has gone. Congested from our lost time in the useful thing.

I feel heavy, delicate is a soul, a thousand fireworks explode.
Broken dream. Can you hear the whisper in the wind? Yes, no? Is not essential because today it already had been yesterday.

An ocean, a thousand kilometres and scorching land.
In the middle of the ocean, there isn’t a Congestion.
Only the reflex stars on the deep blue. The way has signed as like as a life I already had left behind.

Congested a poem with words that I have never told.
Congested of this life, that it’s too empty.
Congested with nothing.

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