I get nostalgic for a kind of suffering 
That lingers on the fingertips of broken words 
and half lit cigarettes 

Of forgotten fallacies 
That trip on the existential drip 
Of lyrics lost to pens without ink 

Of wine glasses, filled to the brim 
And bags of freedom 
Found between sirens fingertips 

Of desire for change 
Out of habits that just stay the same 
And cycles that repeat...

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