sending waves of the scent of hate,
the scent of metallic paints on mornings wake.
I'm sniffing the fumes,
a bonafied stalemate,
a quiet trance I will not break.
Solitude is no jokers prank,
those that indulge it are the greatest laughs,
within themselves and their color coded butter knives,
themselves
themselves.
I'm fed up with everyone I know.
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