It stole my fucking words again.
I can listen to them. Oh boy, can I.
But I don't know where they were
placed, boxed up on a shelf, duct taped shut.
Race, race, race, sprint, trip, and fall.
What does your brain sound like walking?
Walk...I'd like to. Straight into the night.
I can fight with my footsteps.
Or I can stay.
I don't go outside.
I don't like shit. I don't like most of it.
I'm nothing but a word on my arm now,
fading with the ink.
Did I forget how to fight?
Or am I developing new ways
of waging war with
myself?
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