Adam
my
notebook
is
is
the
name
of
every
dude
i
ever
wanted
to
fuck,
slowly
diminishing,
turning
rational
thinking
into
typewriter
bullets
about
getting
close
to
living;
putting
horses
to
rest
after
running
them
dry.
pages
filled
with
stuffed
paranoia
making
the
ground
harder
when
you
fall
face
first
into
the
hot
asphalt,
but
bruises
are
a
sign
of
bravery,
wounds
from
chances
you
invested
time
in.
sometimes,
it
pays
to
get
a
little
fucked
up.
there’s
poetry
inside
us
all,
crack
open
your
ribcage
and
strike
a
match
against
your
heart,
you’ll
see
the
caveman
drawings
tattooed
along
yourself,
early
innovations
of
your
story
held
up
and
archived
on
your
flesh,
letting
you
know
that
you
still
don’t
know
you’re
amazing;
that
you
can
do
anything.
so
i
left
my
prayer
beads
at
the
altar
of
all
my
midnight
explorations,
giving
thanks
to
the
dead
stories
they
have
left
me
with,
but
there
are
no
mantras
for
the
dead.
i
still
spill
ink
to
them
some
nights,
as
they
light
fuses
to
shoot
rocks
through
our
past.
broken
muses
plaguing
4AM
words
thrown
onto
paper,
breaking
stillness
with
the
calamity
clack
clack
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