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I don’t carry with me golden strings
of pompous words, nor an embroidery
of the embellished locutions for
what I carry in me is a bleeding heart
from where words gush out a greenish
pus from decomposing wounds forever
in loop for they never heal, as my brain
keep playing the same slapstick movie
again and again, my miserable spirit
trapped with in the grotesqueness of
familial events, angered and then
sobered again!