| *loolaville _poetry | |||||
| In the Waking It's in the waking [it's hell]there inside my body reminding me I am still me, still trapped inside a broken body. It's life's hangover bedridden and cringing, tears burning as my eyes well. E s c a p e becomes the word to roll around in my mind, to beg at and fantasize with. It's in the waking [it's hell]. I taste the dry death, gone stale like the bread never touched on a table in the prisoner's cell. |
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