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The Living Sick.


My death of a thousand points,
Miscounting my don’ts
Crunching the pull to bounce and puff
Contortionist without enough
Breeding fire in the anchors,
Endowing one sure twist
Engorged and wrapped in fists
Rancor during to when
A victory that had
Nothing to win,
Burdened together
Trapped or rolled within,
Powerful construction along
A gauze strip,
Suction to surroundings
That pass like
Drip, slip, keep
I am coughing the mercury
Of having mine inside of me,
The ride to feet
Hip wide, lies that reside
A recoil wide smile
To gratify,
The starving nose of the reaper
That has possessively
Become of me.

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Categories: Advocacy, Art, Creative Writing, Culture, Drawing, horror, illustration, Nonfiction, Photography, Poem, Poetry, WritingTags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

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