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Every little thought running through my little head
is a stream of consciousness dammed up.
The words all go unsaid.
As you pretend you don't like talking,
I'll Mr. Mime what I can't say.
Instead of moving forward, we'll rewind the pain away.
Holding hands on a clockface,
turning time counter-clockwise
'til Sleepless in Seattle becomes one more peaceful night
where we both dream of genies
with big smiles that show our teeth
and I don't have to wake and watch you count electric sheep.

Every little word whispered in my little ear
is another goddamn cliche,
but it's what I want to hear.
You just pretend it's not a problem.
I'll click my heels and go back home;
where Home was once a person, now she's only skin and bone.
I'd hold my breath forever
if you said I looked good in blue.
Even though it might prove fatal, it's something to hold on to.
"I know we're all just addicts",
as I pour a second glass.
This sand goes down like fire, still these seconds never pass.
Serving Cosmosys' ninth exhibit "Illusions".
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Submitted on
October 18, 2012
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