| vagrancy brushed off his bloom in the first sap of his spring.
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| he lost the vigour of his youth and the fair red of his cheeks, he cannot see,
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| just let me breath or cease to be, i’m so fucking sick of living inbetween,
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| life like a bone was empited of its marrow inside, and my slender had been
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| calibrated by young and fertile minds, study the greats, learn the world,
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| tellthe truth and confide — i lied.
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| lost in those mundaines.
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| in that every-day minutia.
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| i just gave myself to heartache.
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| to the ubiquitous confusion.
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| infamita, my anathem, i tore out that fucking catheter, ill plunge fingures
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| between stiches.
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| no kitschy backhand pitches.
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| i know one must make himself ugly.
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| to expose the ugliness he sees.
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| torn, i know my innermost torture is yours.
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| but iv’e learned, now iv’e growm, a fool dressed in silk, is a fool just the
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| same.
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| but is a fool yesterday, no less a fool today?
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| we can change.
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| dear friends, we’re one and the same, vagrancy brushed off his bloom,
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| in the firsed sap of spring, hear the indian summer sing. |