If you want to be
happy, stop wanting happy
it's the only way
hidden flowers know
what it's like to grow unpicked
they are the best ones
I hold you between
the palms of my chafing hands
I plant you in hope.
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Ideas neatly folded in six inch squares or lying on the grimy floor covered in beer mud and regret.. poetry that inspires a dull throbbing pain in the center of the forehead. circular reasoning and deep insight. My only contact with the outside world. a panopticon.
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