Aftermath.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Title is self-explanatory.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

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Submitted: April 01, 2008

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I've got words; they're falling out of the side of my lips,
staining the smallest pores, so you're gonna have to strain your eyes to read the transcripts.
I know I get lazy, lose grip, and it's even harder for me to admit
that when you quit giving up it won't be long before no one gives a shit.

I test my conscious with a homemade, self-induced drug
and it starts to get addicting right after the first intake of Novocain hits my blood.
I've begun seeing mistakes as more of a plan, wishing I were still young
as the words on my tongue finally attach to the heart in my lungs.

Sometimes the world spins when the movement looses its sense,
like the wall I built, not sturdy enough to block even my own defense.
I've spent too much time drenched in regret avoiding these consequences,
but when the tension lessens the only thing left is the dust in our basements.

(Copyright)


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