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Let your words come like leeches sucking bad blood from the body of my work. Swell with pride excising disturbing humors. Ill, I have come, and arm-bare, begging to be saved. Open a vein, young apothecary. There is plenty of humor to spare. I do not mind the mending knife, the fire of its kiss only brightens my chances of living. I do not mind the gluttony of innocent words as they draw away the poison. Fever throbs in my ears. Cure me.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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Date: 3/11/2019 10:51:00 AM
Potent penning! Enjoyed :)
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Jack Webster
Date: 3/11/2019 11:06:00 PM
Thank you, Maureen.
Date: 3/11/2019 9:54:00 AM
Excellent imagery!
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Jack Webster
Date: 3/11/2019 11:06:00 PM
Thank you, Kim.