The Sun Burns Insane And The Planets Follow Accordingly

i’m an

empty reptile

inside a candy

wrapper.

 

do you want something from me?

 

writing

is life

at its finest—

 

does it feel good?

does it feel bad?

 

it’s a movement

of the clouds,

a type of

hunger

giving back

what’s already

gone.

 

you know

how we chase

without capture.

 

here it is,

another pencil

tracing

an echo.

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