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laughter trails after in the rafters of my head
screams so loud, they want me dead
it’ll look so much neater by my hands instead
where a pencil can’t erase this kind of lead

never quite sharpened, always dull
i blunder about with the worst scruples
but even a blind squirrel sometimes gets full
and sometimes a wolf falls in love with the wool

yet this counting of sheep is foreign to me
in a dream darkened i’ll forever be
in a nightmarish realm getting harder to see
i feel the heat increasing most steadily

-m.p. 10/28/2016

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