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Sections of life from the version du jour
in verses to hold all the pieces
fragments of me from the cutting room floor
the ego/producer releases
to public inspectors; interpretive fools
who read what emotions surround
attempting to fix me without any tools
by wiring my hot side to ground.
A cloth of intentions they’ve woven from thread
that’s spun from my lines or between.
They’d save me from living or ending up dead
or something they haven’t foreseen.
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