Floating balloon skull
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adrift clouds of crystal daggers
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this weightless edge
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of dulled desperation
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has exasperated my mind.
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I cradle my quiet urge to land on my knees
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face down pressing the cold ground,
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broken and surrendered
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to the weight of countless moons.
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I have a haunted child-
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it brings me dead flowers that neither smell nor look
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for anything much.
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Just a crumpled mess,
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just a life cut short of it's beauty,
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it's potential to radiate.
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I'm pathetic, pity this sad white face,
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acid breath, red cheeks, cracked by the wind of indifference.
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I'm old now too, this isn't endearing, this isn't palatable, this isn't cool.
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There is nothing to articulate, my reasons are minute and infinite.
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It's just malaise, a dulled pounding head
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with glimpses of short half formulated renderings
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of a whole picture, a sketch, smears of carbon
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by a hand with stiff bones
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and a mouth,
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stale hollow slipping sordid soliloquies.
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