your kind of crazy is
a smell I like
but can't name
sandalwood, campfires
minced onions,
lemons
and a little bit of sweat
searching for stars
sitting on a dirty beach
seeing through the clouds
looking good.
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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