the writing
smells of ink and the sweat
of work. Diesel and paint a heady
upper. Scratches my soul till it bleeds to
get at the locked doors. There are times
when only he can open me. Smashing
through to get there. Like a child he
knows there are bodies in there.
Needing a camp, a hot fire
and coffee
a dark hit
kicks the spot somewhere
I have never been like he knows my
stomach and where to punch it. A demon
that descends from above. In a cloud of light
with concentrated essence of music. And fun
that makes you laugh and hurt at the same
time. He hurt me so much I can't really
feel him except out of nowhere
comes that shot
22.14
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