from a couch, blinking

try

say something else

we have to

retell the stories, erase the fact that there are facts

only perspectives

unraveled concepts

con-men with biceps

pounding their chests

i hear the echo

trapped in your lungs

shout

scream the song of comfortable doubt

sing, of whys and how’s

not when’s and where’s

let this tune be trumpeted by trusted truth-tellers tempting us to triumphantly overcome this cyclical torture

breaking free

to destroy the enemy

dying free

once again finding we

releasing the me

from this human debris

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