Self-Portrait

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I am a grim machine
nursed to hysterics
by the lashes of refuted claims.
If my speech seems
smothered in ignorance,
it is only because my drive
remains yet uncategorized.
Still,
I will burst
when sufficiently agitated.
My passion is a sleeping carousel
bruised with books.
I furnish my heart’s burning
receptacle with ciphers
and meteors.
My eyes amalgamate explosions,
and my lips expel fractures.
I’m beginning to wonder
if I’ll ever get laid again.
I’m as hammered as a harpsichord,
yet no muses connect.
Will I ever learn to stomach
a brink?
As the monads leap
to shell shock, I melt
in a swelter of ink.

-r. miller

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