On days when the city scape does not look real,
like paint, backwash color, illusion of steel.
When mountain tops shine bright white splinters of light,
I breathe the pollution. My chest becomes tight.
The roaches start scattering away from our sight.
We sit and stare blankly, and dream until night.
Both frightened and threatened by material.
You should press on my eye balls and mash up my skull.
Make me forget things I wanted to be.
Help me remember life based upon need.
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