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I awaken from what can hardly be called sleep |
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Starving as if I had two stomachs to feed |
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An ebb and tide of images in my mind of the two of you keeps my gut painfully empty |
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The tar boils and churns |
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I carve out and deny these infections on my soul and watch as they spawn a life of their own |
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Leaving snail trails of scars over what little of me is still pure |
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As they crawl towards where the tar boils and churns |
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Aborted parts of my psyche are all found nourishing themselves at these pits |
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Bubbling forth from the recesses of my mind where all I am slowly falls in |
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Abominations of my being incessantly teething |