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as suicidal roses one night
my thirsty veines crying for lust and so the light thinner and thinner falling on the floor swallowed by your skin and more I then woke up no English nor me reality hanging on my neck flower chain from Hawaii what a waste is it just me poissoned of poetry is it just me Is it just me alive and Whitman's bones are dry no dog to crave for or is it just an English fall no glory in it no methaphor just be it so be it
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