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Poetic T Dec 2017
Sod the fumigated thoughts
that were meant to be
                           reflected upon.

My original attention couldn't
be spayed upon, like it was
              cockroaches of originality.

I'll crawl upon every blank lyric,
that seeds every page with my
                         worded heart beat.

Never can my words be confided
to the delusions of others
                      repetitive replications.

— The End —