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We often only relate to negativity,
The blackest of lines
matching our irises where light is an illusion.
Spilling the foreign parts of our souls,
Mixing them with the colors of every stranger's intrusion.
We're way too familiar with every wrinkle that our words posses,
We have a photographic memory for our flaws.
We only see the crumbled itinerary,
Where the moments of doubt come alive to sink their claws.
We can't wear amusement well,
Not when our minds have no reflexive reaction to ourselves.
So that one sentence, that one gesture,
That voices the darkest of thoughts in our tiniest of cells,
Is the one we relate to the most,
In a sea of living sunrises and sunsets,
We can't help but look back,
And stare at that resurfacing ghost.
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