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I live in a world of illusions;

every passing thing - fleeting and evanescent 

like a semicolon, passing me off into the next phase of the same thought

Like a comma; It’s dragging on forever. 


even the air seems emptier

Like it used to be filled with ideas or something

more real 

than the suit of sunlight falling down around me.

Ciggarrettes can’t touch the center of my lungs anymore

and Mary Jane doesn’t sing like she used to,

so now all I have left is an endless string of me. 

An endless string of me,

stringing myself along

this world of illusions.


There’s two types of anger one is dry and the other wet and basically wet anger is when your eyes water and your voice shakes and I hate that cause I feel weak when I’m crying while angry I like dry anger when your face is like stone and your voice is sharp I guess wet anger shows that you care too much and dry anger means you’re done.

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