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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?
Written by maggot1148 (Conqueror Worm)
Published | Edited 17th Apr 2014
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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