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The Used
The headphone jack goes into my arm
I can hear my pulse through speakers
I can smell the sweet ink that poured from the pen
It’s fresh
It taunts me
“The taste of ink is getting old”
It burns my mouth
And my pulse changes to guitars.
My whole soul shakes with the bass
And I scream
“Take it away.”
The knot in my chest lessens
But it’s still there
The depression, the anger
It smells like cigarettes and alcohol
The human canvas
Just walking art
Eyes stare at me from the back of an arm
Telling me
“I’m not listening”
The Ink on paper catches the cliché
Changes it, forms it.
Everyone reads it,
Judges it.
I close my eyes to the music
“I’ll be just fine, pretending I’m not.”
People walk around.
Let it go, let it go.
No more of this heart’s lies.
No more. No more.
Just let it take you.
Let it take you
Take you away.
The music
The Ink.
The broken words that litter pages upon pages
Scattered on my floor
The smiles from my childhood
From years of playing pretend
They stare at you.
“Waste some time with you.”
They’ve gone foggy
My vision disappears.
I’ve been used.
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