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Dec 2017
I’d hang myself, if only I could find the end of my rope
It’s tangled up in whiskey soaked thoughts
Everyday is a new measurement. Another step I don’t want to take
down a poorly lit hallway
I can’t see before me and I don’t want to look back
I do anyway
Under flickering fluorescent lights
Eyes squinting through stale cigarette smoke
Nothing
Always nothing
Written by
Jamison Bell
  338
     Rick, Simon Monahan and Riham
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