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i wake up, tears in my eyes;
bad dreams can kill you.
i tell you my secrets.
you tell me you care,
but there's no compassion in your eyes;
all i see are thoughts turning in your head.
'she's crazy' you think; you're right.
i tell you the meds aren't working like they should,
you tell me it takes time.
i don't have time; i'm finished waiting, have been for awhile.
i say goodbye, thanks for nothing, thanks for everything.
there are no beautiful suicides.
that's what you say at least.
well, i'll fucking throw that theory out the window.
i'll throw it out with myself.
i say i can't keep waiting and hoping for spots of happiness,
i'll die soon, my head filled with glory.
i'll jump from this building, into the cement;
never heard from again.
scratch that, you'll hear from me;
i'll haunt you in your dreams.
you'll tell yourself you could have stopped me.
you tell yourself lies.
you dream of the truth.
i am gone, except for the sta
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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