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Historical Truths

I requested that you Can it, your Rants, your prima donna Rants But you can’t, Can It. I won’t let you in on my heart’s level of hurt, you Shoving me aside, Keep the Version of verse we Gave You, you said. Ah, you slithered and sucked your way to that “We” But where was I Now? You wanted me to be The ghostwriter for a ghost /gōst/ = one who occupies the body of a living person in order to complete itself From this, my vantage, I witnessed being stuffed into a corner You prick your presence an unskilled putty knife Thrusting me into the mitre My toes, clinging to the framing While you had your way with me While you With your imaginary playmates thrashing mind flailing birdie

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