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If I rhyme,
Maybe you would find my words beautiful,
Finding something profoundly disturbing more chewable,
Washed down with wine and cuticle,
Your fingernails scraping down my throat
I don't.
I don't need that ****.
Maybe you would find my words beautiful.
But ugly and disjunct, sitting, freely thinking
I feel as though my train of thought has retrained it's tracks
Let's go to a place I don't want to go to.
Drunk, sloppy
*****, wipe, *****.
Wipe your mouth, get up.

It's getting to feel tedious baby,
The conversational tone,
The space outside my brain.
The *****.

I'm long familiar here,
The floor greets me
Like an old friend.
Like it doesn't hurt.

I stumble, and fall
As the blood escapes my skull
I mourn all the good *****
That I'm losing

And the headache
Unites me with the galaxy through the tile
And from this point of view
Things are looking up

And oh, God! the *****

— The End —