memory is self serving,
and always so defensive.
wistful;
sedated and
fucked up on something-
how diluted we have become.
moonbeams come trembling in,
hesitant
afraid.
resentment can
and will
eat you alive.
“sometime
in the course of these days
the lesson turned out to be
you just can’t unring the bell.”
inspiration leaves me
bruised and broken
with my face flat against the wall
fantasy
however well planned out
and thought through
is always a letdown.
just so you know:
it’s lousy if you didn’t.
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