There are things I know far too well
Like the smells of funerals and cheap hotels
That ache in your soul when you know something’s wrong
A look that screams bluntly, “You don’t belong”
That fuzz around achievement that ruins it all
The curdled cacophony of the concubine’s call
The fear of not being remembered,
The assurance it wholesomely borrows
And the truth laced in all your tomorrows
Worries irrelevant and dispair profound-
Rhymes and obscurity must mean nothing to you
But for me, they linger and always hold true
Best be gone-
No more joking, for we are all haunted
Don’t mourn suicide-
It’s all they ever wanted.
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