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It’s got me going crazy. My words are hazy, I’m feeling lazy. Got me wishing I could throw out like Scorsese. Stories not films but just as impressive. One after another, aggressive and successive. Expressive of the musings in my head that the umbra has fed, they’re as heavy as lead, I’m immersed until they’re dispersed or at the very least escape through a momentary outburst, I’m cursed. I’m broken. Like a record that just keeps skipping, my sanity is slipping, out of my mind it’s dripping, it’s stripping, taking any talent away I possessed, I’ve digressed, and now I’m obsessed with a miraculous return, one so hot it’ll give you heartburn. I will rise up so don’t fret with your concern, I’ve learned where the passion sits and I swear to never be call it quits, regardless. There’s always a darkness that once wordless becomes paved with catharsis and lives. It breathes. And through the haze it seethes while you grieve. It heaves becoming my saving grace to once again show face with words that were once misplaced, erased, and misconstrued. I’ve been subdued, not lazy, maybe I am hazy for now I’m thinking if I can’t throw out like Martin, why not Swayze? Yeah, I’m crazy.