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sometimes when the quiet,the world, and everything aroundshuts off/settles down, children's laughterthe only remaining soundof choreographed home movi..
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habitually stretching collarsfresh from the outlet mallso that mirror who sees mewill atleast feel wrongmy pencil stick fingersinstinctually thrust in..
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years old incense sticksburn on the window sillfrom a long passed aprilnext to my memory pad mattressyour afterimage burned in still i still remember,..
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The more I write and dedicate myself to writing, the more I realize I could only love another writer.
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there's nothing like coffee and suicide
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a defunct streetlight strobing
an alleyway, accompanying a
darkened silhouette, a forgotten hooker
together we were, too alone to
know how truly..
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barren oakwood branches sway and singcatching windborne whistles,softening the cueswith whispered owl coos, a mother lulls her childnot acknowledging ..
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i was born a vagrantstripped of my identityi was about eight my parents abandoned memy younger yearswere spent, so introspectivelyasking so many quest..
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you can fight, you can maimyou can kill in the name of self defensebut that doesn't change anythingyou'll be haunted by the same ghosts in the endand ..
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the only peacethat i've actually foundis in my own sardonic rituals andturning my oneness to a clown'sbecause in the faceof the humiliating, deprivati..
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