Bitter Rind of Melancholy

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No bosom to lay has life bashing me by the balls.

Tragic thoughts hang ominous as all action in this saga stalls.

I’m up way before the rooster calls,

And i’m knowing every degree of how restless a single night can be;

Line them up back to back 7 in a row,

Now i’m deathly weak.

No satisfaction to be had out of a weekend:

Wherever you witness me pray on the sabbath, know it had everything to do with touch.

My current version of shades of blue: Everything to do with reach.

Phone dont ring,

Such means My words dont sing,

Even my maker didn’t feel the need to hear me.  

Even the gold diggers wont near me;

Fuck does it matter who I out cash when my flash incompatible with making connections.  

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