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Up Before Eight

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Every day I'm taken to my knees at the plethora of bullshit compounding infinitely.

I fill journals, post-its, and apps.

I write pages in the morning or sitting in the bath

Trying my best to make sense of the avalanche of potential nothings in front of me.

I've kept papers as far back as Elementary school.

My drawers are filled to the brim with words strung together in hopes of making sense of my senselessness.

I'm no better than the person with an overflowing wardrobe woven from Capitalism and underpaid wages.

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All I said was "I think I'm meant to be a writer.' And the tears just started falling. I cried like a mother whose heart is breaking because her son told her he's going to go off and be an artist. Cry

"I am not here to judge you, only to molest you Strip you of your dignity Crack open your chest and let your vitality spill on the floor I am the curtain and there is nothing but a man behind me I emp

Like a sitting duck We are prey We are not human Humanity is for those who pray My existence is contingent on enduring the pain of the unspoken rules My life matters less because they say so My rights

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Thanks for your interest in my rambling writing and other endeavors. For more information, feel free to get in touch and I will get right back to you.

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