my thing i wrote

i have gotten in trouble already for sharing it 

but i cant hold myself not to show it again... i cant just only tell burnard and my class 

yesterday's committee,                             Absence, say, of Susan's

Sticks, but a broken drum,                        Absence of Egeria's

Midnight in the city,                                  Arms and respectful blossoms

Flutes in vaccume,                                   Lips and, ah posteriors,

Shut lips, sleeping faces,                          Slowly form a presence;

Every stopped machine,                           Whose? And i ask, of what

The dumb and littered places,                  So absured an essence, 

Where crowds have been -                       That something, which is not,

All silence rejoice,                                   Nevertheless should populate

Weep (loudly or low),                             Empty night more solidly 

Speak - but not with the voice                Than with which we copulate, 

Of whome, i do not know..                     Why should it seem so squalidly?