And I must confess
That I don't detest
Brushing against 
A drug-ed consciousness  
The things we employ 
For the things we enjoy
And the joy we receive
From the things that deceive
My mind is my alter
My body I slaughter
Willing sacrifices 
I'll continues all my vices
And that's the appeal
The way that we're dealing
Because copings not real
And were all just dreaming 
This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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