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I knew them all. I loved them all like mine
when all my demons gave me back was dirt.
A hundred nights it's taken to malign
this opportunity to scrape my hurt.
A blade too dull to break the callous skin,
my words lie still. You don't know who you are.
Impatient for the road, my time wears thin.
The hole I leave behind won't even scar.
Enough. My timing oils an aching joint
of nervous beasts. My intricate designs
have brought me in a circle with no point
where strangers gawk like limericks and each friend
works like a piece with only fourteen lines.
This wasn't how my work was meant to end.
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