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Fuck it;)

Word smith an unintelligent gun smith power lives, in the sound between your lips so girls bend your hips just jokes so, Netflix and chill, ...

Friday, 4 June 2021

I'm not ill.

The flowers the seeds, the tumble and the weeds
the grown trees and the falling leaves 
the disappearing reeds wave in the murky seas
ash cascades an atomic breeze of a blistering disease
skin melts a skeletal strip-tease of scientific expertise
otherworldly pleas as Earthlings flee.

You see, there's nothing wrong with me.