I tied a blue ribbon to a rhythm And made of a fabric unknown to me a poem is all at once all the answers and

in fact it struggles to suppress them for it would rather not be a poem instead of the nonsense, it’d be sincere it wouldn’t speak of emotional things lost causes, lost dogs, lost minds, or lost dreams when we joke of our suicide we know that you’ve heard and you care to help me now for look how the child with her hair combed was once her own and and her whole innocence it was not perished for a thought as cold intemperate and imponderable

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