if i could write a poem i'd paint it black.
the fine line is fine and fancy for a princess who never lifts her hair to breathe
and a broken record is broken to the listeners of a song in the past
for nobody can kill curiosity with their bare hands
but the tumble weeds may fall upon your poor unhappy head and you may cry into the wind and hope they find your head before the make up washes off
because this skin, once smooth, is now the carnivorous thoughts in the mind of a mad man.
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