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I hear twisted words Like leaves on a vine. Words jumbled through punctured ears, Words people dine upon.   Vicious, rapid, jumbled they sing. They catch a flying bird And twist its wing
With 1800 hands in my mind, I carved initials into my eyes.   I turned down my volume to see vernacular art, Blinking morse code the way to my heart,   Only to hear you squeak:
Know that parental and financial conditions, flew me to another nation, where words must go under translation. Ordained to this situation, I progessed through error and correction,
Trudging my feet across the street Waiting underneath a foggy, humid sky, Yet again, the bus is late. An hour long ride from my home to school Foreign music blasting my eardrums
All I can think is I don’t want to go there I don’t want to go there I’ve always refused to go there Tour there Talk about there Other than the dropping of a name or two
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