
Coughing up lunar bile in a field of flowers, turned to cancer. This garden-boy has grown up into weeds.
"Don't be sad", they said.
"Thank you," I replied, "I am cured."
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(Obligatory "Grammy" comment : I think it's sad that we live in a world where Adam Lambert gets blacklisted for kissing a man on television, yet Chris Brown can beat Rihanna, come back a few years later, win an award, and have "#proudofchrisbrown" trend on Twitter. This is a fucked up world.)
Comments
I sort of understand the poem,
but I can't tell whether the ending is sarcastic.
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(I'm going to kill someone.)