where the writers are
My brain cells feed off my nervous bit

forget the pain

Kind one is familiar with you today

See her through the door

My tree ledge is falling

she said, “Pot made the bi polar go away.”

A hollow heart

Fast across my chest

I listen no more

My brain cells feed off my nervous bit

It is a habbit

Don’t die on me yet

Astounding fellow, 

finding treasure about the vacant lots of this stupid town.

And I’m wound about the neck, in up about to blow.

Fine fellow, can I lean on you now?

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