deepundergroundpoetry.com
the red crayon
you set me on fire
with your wet works
pissed on me
so I could burn a little longer
up north psychology
called me crazy
and in your eyes justified
the smiles in the skies of the broken
lusted for my death
but I would not relent
my pursuit of the red crayon
underlining my psychosis
would not be denied
you see I have a gold star
from the maker
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