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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...
Wednesday 3rd November 2021 2:15 am
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