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I am wired yes
I am always wired
I take my desperate notes
On dead screens

I fly yes
I always fly
I pick the heaviest wings
To take me places

I drink yes
I always drink
I drink souls of poets
And sour poison of fermented flesh

<Reflection of relief
Is on the death of my poet
I am eating foreign biscuits
To feel>

I am looking at the passenger next to me with my corner eye and wondering what she feels with her healthy quinoa and glass of water. Her gorgeous long nails of pink. Organic.

Vaishali P

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