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The Stink.

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There is a smell.
Only certain people have it.
A disease;
It eats away at you,
Devouring the heart,
The pump of your body.
It does not grow on trees.
Or in refugee camps.
Or in poor slums in India.
No, this smell is reserved for those among us.
Those who are said to be blessed.
Those that don’t doubt the trees’ green.
Those that are blind, deaf, but can still see and hear.
Those that don’t see beyond a bubble of their own making.
The stink latches onto them,
Smelly, smelly, smelly.
Do you smell it?





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