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Angry, up too late;
Another night on another broken date—
The head aches but the soul knows what it thirsts for,
And it knows its mistakes, clad in appetite
Too thirsty to call it something lesser;
Indie rock formulates a blister.

This pain couldn’t tell you what the world is made out of
Or what the face of your father was before
His grandad was born; but this pain will tell you
Blood vessels constricted somewhere across your brain
And that you are probably dying; not as a stroke,
Nor a whisper, or whimper, or bang.
It’s just a migraine.  Enjambment regains its stamina,
Maybe that’s okay, maybe it’s alright—
Maybe what you’re doing should be it for the night.