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HyenaDo I have to be depressed
to write my heart on white sheets?
When I feel so numb inside
that I can't feel my feet.
And the words are just stuck in,
drowning down in my seat.
There is this woman down the road
She'll tell you your way home,
It's the dream I once had and then I sold,
when I take the big return to the cold,
And the rough ways for unknown..
Am I ready to call that HOME?
I can't stop thinking of my life,
Will I be okay after a thousand times
Of these falls that I seem to like,
Am I sure this is my favored rhyme!
I'm not certain, I'm not sure,
Not a guy who gives it all to time,
The kind of neurotic, it's written on my tour,
Should I surrender to the fools,
Would surrendering be my cure?
I don't know
It seems hard
I don't know
If that's my home.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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