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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1134832
I suffer from having too much time on my hands...
To loneliness I will dance Like stone soup in winter.
You talk too much
For I know ink won’t fail me
In every instance
Insanity is the tune I fear
Running, running digging a hole
For no place will make me happier
Emptiness is my hunger
Like borer, through and through I am unified with youth
That I’ll never use
The clock stands still
Will time forget
Will time forget
Will time forget
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