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May 11
it comes when there is no time to write
and you're inches away from spilling your
sanity out on a sidewalk in the park

elevating to the moon you whisper
quiet nothings into your own bare shoulders

it comes when there's no time to think
and when the skies begin to look interchangeable

greys upon greys and sunset knitted together
and the cold dawns upon uncovered skin

it comes when there is no time to breathe
Written by
Foogle  15
(15)   
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