[i love finding first drafts of poems, especially when I think "hm what the hell was I trying to say with this?... I kind of hate this poem]
foam rising up.
we are alone in chaos.
the bitter remains of our tongues:
a common, clique experience.
all my words are used up
like discarded tissue.
All I want to do is express.
Even this experience
is only an echo
of past outcries.
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