Fleeting, bleating sheets, sheaths of worn and torn youth-age
return, darling, your presence is more than the dark, the whispering monsters of your crazed, manic mind. it's more than anxiety-stricken, ticking, blinking thoughts.
it's more than clenched fists, nursing beads of sweat, rolling dreaded paths along the tram line of [cliche] broken hearts.
a writer two times quit, is seven times as fit.
writing is wearing and tearing and blaring and caring. caring, is it?
on May 24
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