dosquatch
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my_war wages in my head, grenades of self_doubt and self_loathing are heaved inwards, wrecking my thoughts, derailing my desires. Mindquakes that rattle me to the core, reverberate off the inside of my skull and fall down to feed the butterflies in my gut. Even though I_have_words, they tumble and tangle on their way out, tying my tongue to my tonsils and leaving me to sound like a stuttering fool. I want to be suave and eloquent, to have poetry pop on my tongue like champagne bubbles. It sounds so good, so clear, so inspiring in my head, but then my lips begin to move and another grenade goes off. I try to drown the noise, declare a chemical truce, but all I ever do is end up drunk with a vague feeling that I've somehow lost another battle, and the war wages on.
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040603
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