it's morning, arose
cleared the blood from my nose and the sweat on my head gleams likes crystals before the sunset.
my red eye 9 to 5, 5 to 9 , has left my back twisted and my brain fried and despondent,
how to relate to a world running on a full tank, how am I to gauge when I look like I just inebriate, sloth like footing using a chair as a crutch pushing back horrid thoughts from one corner of my mind to any clean surface and reorganizing them on a prose with rhyme.
a forayer of my memory which has burnt itself so dry, my voice cracks and falls flat as my imaginary balloon of hope collapses residing flaccid on the black linoleum floor.
good bye April mornings, hopes of lovers, and the notion that connections can make it past friendship; bitter, you bet, and you can help burn this cigarette until it falls from my cold fingers and fills me.
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