yes. Im bleeding. Barely breathing. Not seeing. Just beliveing. Hate this feeling. Against the ceiling. Sides enclosing. Losing my willing. Start some killing. Just to feel thrilling. All this time wheeling. And then dealing. Cards that are lying. While the players are dying. A new born baby crying. Addicted to crack yea relying. Mother fucked up by fucking. Entire poem just a bunch of ings. But im pretending. The words have meaning. That they're something. Not just nothing. Want them to be everything. Filled with loving. And even hating. Some cutting. Then stabbing. Yea shooting. Maybe slicing. Lots of bleeding.
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