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B is for Bad Poetry

Bruised, confused
And our hands on dry ice
An unstructured block of genius
There are feet slipping through
Dull, rotted logs
And a large man with a machete

Battered legs swarmed and damp
Blood trickles down white skin
It smells like paradise
With sweaty bodies and nervous laughter
Mossy, slippery rocks
And a large man with a machete

Black earth splattered screams
Water bottles clanking together
Calming mantras as you fall for the
4th, 5th, 6th time
The realization that you're afraid of heights
And a large man with a machete



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