It’s blunt and bludgeoning 

Like a concrete boot,

When it trips you down

And kicks you.  

It’s a half-hearted mad

Hand that’s bundled up in apathy. 

But believe me, kid,

When it hits you –

Doesn’t matter what words you

Try to stutter in short lines you

Wrote,  or hidden little tricks you

Have tucked up in your sleeve

Where, by your liar sweat, it sticks to

Your pale skin when she says 

“I’m sorry, 

 But I can’t fix you”

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