The dehydrated working class poet. Not afraid to admit I'm wrong. Just hard being wrong for so long.
Friday, 23 May 2014
The Front Left.
The front left becomes a horror of untold. Every face smiles, but they are smiles of day light robberies and hurt and pain. The space you obtain becomes small till you can't breath and the witches crackle with ease.
I like dancein on tables and gettin drunk, drunk enought to fall and stumble, to know im lost and feel its ok to mumble. time takes to long so im tryin to express how i feel. but the question is always there is any of this real?
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