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DEAD LOVING

Bad reaper, Bad reaper
Crawled in
Unannounced
Plucking the unripe fruit
Of virtuousness
So juvenile,
So tender
Sweet,
To the taste of its tongue
But bitter, to my instincts.
Stinging, to my eyes, with tears
Crushing
To my bones.
No strength within me
So I drop dreary on the surface… thank God, not made of stone.
White sheet, immense heat
Same moves, different persona
Reverse to the bottomless pit of…
Square one.
No emotion, no reaction
No articulation
Hence no satisfaction.
So this is love ey?
Today Jimmy
Tomorrow Johnny?
True,
One says I’m authentic; the other ten narrate I’m Fake
I mean how much more can I take?
Never once appreciated the genuine affirmation
Of optimum caring
So I stick to this game… this game called ‘Dead Loving.’
 
 

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