Afraid that I’m out of words, no letters to put together a poem or a song or a journal, I don’t care to put together anything in a pattern tonight, convention is boring me to the piece, I’m bitter and liberated and confused, nothing has to fall apart except for my insides and what I know, too much patience and too little warmth, the equation doesn’t work without a solution, the silhouettes cannot move without some form of lighting, my thoughts are scattered like substance smeared across a tabletop, I have to let you go from me, I have to stop living in what I dream to see, I have to untie the knots, I have to act on what is good for me. Good for me. You are not.


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