i know, it’s only the murmur of a lousy fix

deviation cum meditations

breathing out words into existence

all over the place

the night trying hard to be serene

as a deafening silence

to cover this derangement ;

like this poem here,

untitled,

whispering promises

and fucking up my throat

w/ a lump of

uneasy dryness ——

this is excess

as fire

of creativity, its

flame

almost gone.

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