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Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
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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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