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Panned
My bones and my brains are developing rust,
I'm pumping the handle but, it’s spitting out dust
Rain clouds mumbled, and they just kept going
Unfurled my sails but the wind ain’t blowing
I was pissing and moaning in a fitful rage
But the dried up tears left a wrinkled blank page.
The things I start always end up panned,
As my pen sits still, stagnant in my hand.
Copyright ©
Luke Irwin
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