the crudely crafted shank of childish design still cleaves your heart and lacerates your mind there is no shape to thought or moment there’s no pleasurable release or pyrrhic prize to salve your wounds yours are the days of infected sharps and twisted spoons you know that you’ll succumb despite your better self and later assert that you went home before the band lit up your favourite tune temptation reeks of self deception one more solid hit and you’ll find the door you lost yourself to dime bag reasoning and sold your love for a winning smile life goes on you will survive truth be told you don’t really care and I don’t seem to mind
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