The artist in me has gone and hid in the basement. My creativity dumped into a well. My inspiration has long divorced with me even get compensation as incentives too. And I'm watching T.v like a corpse in the bed,and still my tarot on YouTube saying I have a bright future. Yeahhhh!
Because I've not yet learned how to stop in this heat, in the season of summer in May's lap, its overwhelming opulence in its overt grandeur of shimmers the draft of past knives touches me cold, it recites and ignites and labels my body blue and mocks my feeble hands to demand what I hold so tight I'm with hunger and no appetite I'm a hunter in a deerless dawn extending my gray bones between the wooden arms of a forest that may or may not recede as deceitful as May's scalding cheeks I'm where I was a gem in your ring, or the pink left on a calf caught in the trap of a tight sock longing for a touch of clean breath dying at the end of a cold metal muzzle of a hapless May
The broken ones have a lot to say but they rather remain silent because it's no worth trying to explain people your pain because they just think you want attention
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