No drugs work. Alcohol only makes it worse. My music is a colony of ticks dying in my brain. My poetry is a clog of toilet paper in an infant's throat.

I'm seeing the reflection of the light I used to ignite in others die in my own eyes.

I know the bottom is a trampoline. But it doesn't make the length of the fall any shorter, or the darkness of the night any warmer as my arms curl around the lost gunshot of the sky.

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