| This is a story, some kind of a story
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| this is a story about about a boy and girl,
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| a girl and a boy, a boy.
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| (), only fighting.
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| that some boy in the dark while he learned to evolve
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| inverted crystal mountain kind of a story.
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| this is a story
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| man, about the serifs and ciphers that the scholars deciphered
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| translations of sanskrit
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| just as my handwritten story.
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| this is a story
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| where the singers begin to appear
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| in the spaces between all the dashes and braces
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| in the mothbitten story — of getting left behind.
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| this is a story
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| some kind of a story.
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| with the pages distressed sins you held to your chest,
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| they were mangled and dog eared, while the rest were just mangy and gory.
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| this is a story about the memory of water
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| translating the sound of the traffic.
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| remember the traffic?
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| it’s making you carsick all along southfield freeway.
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| and translating mistakes and the trees were mistaken
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| and the trees for the woods and the sound of the trash
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| for the sound of the blowing leaves along the southfield freeway.
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| my name is a blackbird, this is a two tone.
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| feathers are warm in molasses,
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| twisting the words from the solids to gases.
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| now i don’t have worry (of making it)
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| it’s so unclear.
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| am i dead or am i dying
|
| or am i simply tired of crying?
|
| my name is a blackbird, this is a two tone.
|
| feathers are warm in molasses,
|
| twisting the words from the solids to gases.
|
| now i don’t have worry (of making it)
|
| it’s so unclear.
|
| am i dead or am i dying
|
| or am i simply tired of crying?
|
| my name is a blackbird. |