poetry critical

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hopes atomic

up to the sound of an old heart beating
slowly and i want it to stop; the elevating drones of my neighbors breeding accelerates the hand of the clock, and i'm defeated:       my pulse goes cold at the heel. i try to follow the feeling,             but i'm never so clever in the evening.
i wouldn't say no to a few friend
but i'm scared to admit that i know someone. there's always hope from the beginning in trading tales, we come prepared for the end and the art of lying.

9 Aug 17

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