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What

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What do I want?
Do I crave sexual innuendo in the guise of friendly conversation?
Intellectual wastelands between breaths of incomprehensible noise?
To spit my potential across a brick wall?
Do I need visceral contact until it hurts too much?
Grinding like granite on my psyche,
Seeping into the spaces between my ribs
and turning into 1000 cold needles.
My eyes are wild and my skin thin,
walking paths without much difference between them
They say I look better, and my work has done me good
and give me my pills to keep me quiet.





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