My university newspaper accepts poetry submissions. It's run by total kikes and faggot SJWs but I decided to give it a go one time. I write often, and thought I'd maybe share it with you guys.

--

In a place where the wind still carried
the song of birds and the dandelion seeds,
was a grassy hill, by dad, first cleared,
in a land grandpa had first truly tamed,
when his father arrived there from distant sands,
a migrant seeking expression of a truer Form and Way;
how glorious it was to, be by it, held,
to sled down the slope in the sacred snow,
to chase the bees and be carried by the green
waves of grass in the eternal Spring.

These days, a rusty fence girdles it around,
forbidding Our entry, for some time, now.

If there is one way to describe the sight —

Suffering,
suffering,
suffering.

--

Thanks for all the good times, /pol/. I wouldn't seize the day knowing there weren't other people experiencing similar terror.