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The Death of My Senses

My reflection?

My reflection?

Something I’ve always had an affinity for, before I head out the door I’m sure to check my face, hair and teeth, fresh and clean the way I wish to be perceived on the outside at least but could honestly care less about what I have put inside it. For someone who focuses so much on himself, I find it a little ironic he only looks in the mirror but not too much to his health.

My palms?

They hold 40’s of brew and break down weed between me and the crew, in a sense, I am the bearer of good times cause whenever I’m rolling those are my favorite wraps to use.These hands of mine only seek to bring pleasure, but only give the temporary kind weather to roll up a blunt so me and my friends can get high, or to open beer after beer until my vision is blind, or foreplay with a girl before I go all the way inside.

My breath?

It shows in the cold, and carries a stench of menthol cigarettes and heavy with alcohol, whenever intoxicated it tends to speak without being spoken to always put in two cents never acknowledging if what is said could be taken insensitive, but my breath could spit bars and make you think, “Damn that shit go hard,” my breath carries stories and poetry too, my breath could give insightful advice but by the end of the night the wisdom in my breath is suppressed by slurred words, impaired eyesight, and off balance steps that almost fall with each stride.


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The Death of My Senses
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