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If that was out of context, may have no meaning, I might be bored. -He shrugs his shoulders- there is a taste in his mouth, bites, as he follows a trail of blood, and dips in.
'Who writes and incomprehensible poem, and reads it out,
to a pretend audience of false friends?'
They might not even have the grasp of what this is all about.
He wishes he could peek at their compassionate gazes,
that disconcerting feeling of being looked at, from above.
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Perhaps I could walk all day, rest my soul, I'd dig myself a hole and hide inside for a week, I lost a shoe, the laces are still all done up around my neck, I used to tie you with them.
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Has the same feeling 15 different takes!?
a punch to the stomach, will always feel the same,
skipped exhalations, breathe inside trying to recoup what you've lost.
Differences, can only be seen from different angles,
it is all good from the facade,
it is just fine in our circles where I can look after you all.
Repetitions, nauseous, bad listeners worse preachers. Wrong answer.
And every time that I've tried, like I feel for you, The mistakes I made, like when I picked that stone up,
(I won't pick up those shreds) I can't pay for affective value.
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I crammed my soul into a jar, for everyone to see.
This city is full of people using far too many proverbs, just look through this, it is transparent nonetheless. Sealed double-checked, a thick layer of glass will prevent the breaking of the inside, and when that day will come, I won't stand, because I am pretty sure my legs can't really support my frame, I could stay down then, much safer and way closer to the floor.
At least if I fall I won't get hurt, I could just lay on it and wait for things to hit me. I told you that story already few times, and it changes every time, by the end of it, will be unrecognisable, we won't even end up being in it.
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