The Mind Shook Fits with a Pen

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Because I couldn’t type

deliberate and precise
I took it upon myself to say,
myself to myself
so there wasn’t any confusion,
all of my life I have been putting myself
down, with bitter moral authority

from the belly I cough and heave
from the seasonal disease
that blinds my mind with headaches
and fills my days with age

I anguish and worry and blame
as if I were trying to hate distrust away
I await my fate in a blanket
a fish surfacing to taste the day

I have produced the consumption that verifies me
proving I am a maker of disbelief
dispeller of belief as it were, in the slums and gardens
of my comic relief

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