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11:51 a.m. 5/18/09

To have a hold,
a grip,
on some kind of
REALITY
made me think
that my existence
was a joke,
and a feeble one at that -

How long did I go by
with my neck stiff from
counting patterns on the floor?
how long did the percussion in my
cavity long to play a new beat?

I'm tired of playing that old song;
the harmony isn't what it used to be
since the needle scratched the record.


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