Cynicism: The Poison of the Masses

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Kiss my blazing hands and then
Proceed to remove my innards
The hollow of my heart taken
Fluttering, like the birds.

Pain isn’t as bad as empty
I know ‘cause I’ve had doses
Loads and loads too much spent here
Of both of these discolored roses

Decode, reload, still wish my dreams
Torn so well and tossed over-boat
Could follow my realities
And rip out their incompetent throats

I burn with fever no roots or herbs
Can cure or sooth so well
Timeless traditions stripped like those innards
Replaced with accurate cures from hell





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