deepundergroundpoetry.com
Aversion to Fescue
My tongue tastes of the acrid breath that crystallizes my lungs verde
Pale blue eyes slip back and forth erratically, chasing the acrobats of some phantom Cirque Du Soleil
The pungent smell of a blade's genocide swims up through my burning nostrils
I feel the itch building up inside, scratching at my throat, threatening to suffocate me.
Where the fuck are my pills?
Pale blue eyes slip back and forth erratically, chasing the acrobats of some phantom Cirque Du Soleil
The pungent smell of a blade's genocide swims up through my burning nostrils
I feel the itch building up inside, scratching at my throat, threatening to suffocate me.
Where the fuck are my pills?
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