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You sing your own lullabies,
paint crimson lips,
plant wet smiles,
grate all carrots,
and sauté the thorns.
(Pray sins won't replace
no four lettered word.)
In an atlas of commitments,
you stay an island for
every man who seem to set up
the sail, would soon deal his soul
to dry up that ocean around you.
Oh melancholy, you stay untitled.