the part of writing
which appeals most
is after i have long
turned to dust
the words live on
unsullied by a fool
i can be forgotten
as anything but scars
on the face of beauty
pockmarks on the whore
mouth of creativity
i was never really here
in the first place
an accumulation of scars
draped over a longing for
things i was never meant
to truly experience myself
totally
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