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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
More in Introspection and belly button lint Work
Peripherally distorted trees fly by
Roadways littered with tension
Anxiety claws at my ribcage
Wanting to feed on my heart
And never-ending politics
Putrefy my psyche
A sluggish gaseous poison
Infects my good intentions
As closer, and closer
I creep to my destination
Do I remain in neutral or shift
Into blissful reverse
Or move forward and succumb
To the inevitable catatonia
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