Self Improvement.
What deception spills the blood?
What prevents “I like to” from becoming “I could”?
If you’ve considered doing it?
You should
What denial creeps into our beds
To gently caress our weary heads
Till slumber wins out over what would have been said?
What disease has drawn us to here?
What pretense is a simple and sad rouse for fear
That carries us away on its leaking gondolier?
A trinket, a memory, a lingering touch
In time broken, forgotten, and discounted as much
So I will parlay its existence as such
With the profoundly felt absence of cheer
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