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untitled


carved out
i'm bare to the green,
a wilted pulp beneath
spring's harsh frost

the doctor asks
are you sleeping well?
(as if the circles
beneath my eyes lie)

i'm fine, i'm fine
it's just these headaches

excuses, excuses
i deny anti-depressants,
opt for migraine pills instead

hope for the turn around,
hope to prove worthy

for all that i've never
measured up
full enough for.



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