deepundergroundpoetry.com
Don't burn your lips
Come to me, cigarette
nothing makes sense.
The voices that wake me
the bruise and the blood
at the back of my head.
I finally have you...
in exchange,
everything, but the sun,
is gone.
nothing makes sense.
The voices that wake me
the bruise and the blood
at the back of my head.
I finally have you...
in exchange,
everything, but the sun,
is gone.
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