The sores that plant their seeds in my moist mouth, they wreak
with a silent dissonance, its inescapable, nor would I want to, for I find
comfort in the chaos. My verbal muscle, not the chords, but the tongue, it
converses with the foul, faithless beasts. Though I cannot fault their existence,
for theyre here to teach, to force my hand, born to inspire, built to expire,
an oral fixation put to paper
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