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Hours spent hunched in the grass,
that bug the only thing you see,
hours spent twisting lids onto insect size gas chambers.
Hours spent bent over long sheets of paper,
Nose so close to the color,
Words might print onto your nose,
Hours spent tracing over years and seconds of history.
You think about your days, Listless and robotic,
Boring and inspirationless.
But you wonder if change is worth it.
Last time your pattern altered, You were torn into so many jagged pieces,
That putting then back together...
Well, the effort proved futile.
You think about your nights,
O dark sleepless night,
Hate bounces inside your skull,
Festering rediculous day dreams, just to get the hate to go away,
You wonder why you can't sleep,
It's easier than trying to make it out here.
Here where the buggy gas chamber has ruined your lungs,
One accidental wiff and your coughing,
Deep in your chest,
Your lungs have holes and your trachea is on fire.
No, acetone is no good for you.
A quiet posion.
When you are bent over sections of paper,
2000 words carefully outlined,
the sharpie now part of your hand,
beautiful sharpie words in sharpie boxes and the colors remind you,
of the acetone that felt like death,
Bringing back the cough that rattles your little frame.
The sharpie scent rips down to your lungs and you cough and cough.
This time you taste fliud,
This time you can't breathe.
Acetone and sharpie poison took their toll, only innocent projects,
turned to silent poison.