Munitions mangle and i sit silent by the soft gentle light of my screen silently sipping my muddled tea swirling the smoke puffs of my charred lungs inhaling and exhaling ash contaminants silently silently tearing twice once from the smoke once from the screaming scenes and i am silent still silent silent silent how long can i in silence suppress my solicitude solemnly surging let my agonizingly anemic words age against aggress while the winds coil me hopeless helpless in silence while munitions mangle and ordnances orphan
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you are a sculptor of words and utterances. you go boy, twist them to paint the images that are born from moments of indigo-tainted room corners; gently push their linguistic clay, coaxing their sound to bring out liquid toughts; sharply slice them to let irrelevant parts drop away, leaving only the melancholy, draped shadows of language and speech.
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