Wording, words, thinking think-
Pulsing backwards, concentration and circulation continuing,   
but pulsing is all I feel.
Everything turns fuzzy, my mind, my life, my eyes, picturesque moments begin to fog up.
Leather against the bottoms of my skull, 
Torture, is all but mentally established.
It's gone, 
And looking for its next victim.

This poem is about: 


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