Pages
each is like an open space
I could spill my mind onto it
like a inspirational bullet
I would probably crumple the page
my thought won't do what I want
They're like mush
piles of ideas and dreams
to sort through
the best live on the bottom
they thrive in the dark
surrounded by happy thoughts
they're cruel
sinners
They eat grass like sheep
but they're not sheep
everyone else is
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