poetry

Fuel me that

Test,

I won’t ever be a pruh, at any of yours.

Place me a bone so I can make a theorem of such immense doctored hypothesis of my own hypocritical so in my own political bias. The bone which you do gave was not even one. Because I threw it and bounced back thus hitting my achilles.

Yelling to myself

“My liver, my aching pancreas”.

You saw me fake my own laughter.

I can hear Lucy yelling, “YOU blockheads, blockheads, Block HEADS.”

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