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Launchpad of Feels.

Suck down your cigarette.
Draw off the bowl.
Nurse the beer.

Feel the music molest,
penetrate your soul.

Push out
the words with carelessness.
So pure,
unfiltered, raw and unedited
as I’m such
a hopelessly fucked-up

it’s the kind of shit
you would wake up to delete
when you became sober
enough in bed
and hope to high hell
no one read.

It may not be the epitome,
though it is an imperative step
in the creative process,

so don’t be so hard
on yourself.


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