one

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We dance blindly around truth;
Perfecting our craft with every feeling untranslated,
Every fatal suppression of our demons
Which has become a daily ritual
Or habitual peace to our aching hearts.
We like the silence though –
We'd rather wallow in meaningless maybes
And promises of better days,
And fill them up with aimless lust
Followed by a parade of
Broken hearts,
Than succumb to this loneliness
Even as another one walks out the door.

   

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