stuck in
between two thoughts
neither is
completely identifiable
no good can
come from words scattered
what is it he
wants
why has
everything become so foreign
a cramping in
his hand
madman and his
pen
his thoughts
burning holes
thoughts he
will never forget
they never
question the drunk
art accepted as
such
but his irie
eyes draw the wrong
type of
attention never positive
someday it will
be accepted
spinning out of
control
no end in sight
out of mind
his own of
course
who is that
sitting across the table
a year has
passed…
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