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Everytime I see someone since my uncle’s been gone, they tell me how different I look How I cut my hair short How my acne cleared up How my lips aren’t chapped anymore
Five hundred miles between a temporary bed and what felt like a bad dream Two days in oblivion just waiting for a “hey, I’m better off today” But the message never came Just rumors of a tree by the soccer field
Muted grey Shades of pain Blurry sneers My arms stretched out Coils freeze on my limbs Hanging above soulless concrete
What if I told you that poets were overrated? Someone who can only write when they’re sad, Or in love or in bliss or in need of desperate rent money, Is like a flower that only drinks from a tsunami.