Don t feel like home. Ease a little out. And all these words alone is nothing like your poem. Putting in and putting in. Don t feel like methadone. A scratching voice all alone. It s nothing like your baritone. It s nothing as it seems. The little that he needs. It s home. The little that he sees. Is nothing he concedes. It s home. One uninvited chromosome. A blanket like the ozone. It s nothing as it seems. All that he needs. It s home. The little that he frees is nothing he believes. Saving up for some day. Something maybe two tone. Anything of his own. A chip off the corner stone. Who s kidding? Rainy day. A one way ticket headstone. Occupations overthrown. Whispered through a megaphone. It s nothing as it seems. The little that he needs. It s home. The little that he sees is nothing he concedes. It s home. And all that he frees. A little bit of sleep. It s home. It s nothing as it seems. The little that you see it s home. |
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