fear of becoming a curmudgeon
and other grim dungeon tales
bless my tortured soul
the things we tell ourselves
sins committed
we only allow outselves to see
while the inself
we hold hostage
the lies we sell ourselves
derivatives
while quenchless sorrow well serves its needs
immediate
not the long haul
stop the bleeding
face your muse
spits on her thumb
wipes my brow
like pick up sticks
twigs in my hair
coming of curmudgeons
roll up your sleeves
it won't stop vagrant indigitives
eyes gone vacant
dugout trenches
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