Song of Myself (a crappy imitation of Walt Whitman)

I am a vast dichotomy of tasteful ideals. I desire to dream the dreams most people deterred. Paintbrushes touch canvases then lift as if unsure if they should grace the world with their beauty or hold back with chagrin. Bodies burrow under blankets with banned books instead of men. I warm myself with beverages in a coffee mug on a rainy day rather than a body lying next to me.

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beetleboo52

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