They call us the glory-hunters, the recluses who mean to matter the most
People with happiness at grasp – almost, yet no quite there yet

Over-thinkers, over-bearers – we speak soon as we assume an upstanding and re-priorited positioning

This paralysed pen will think within itself again, something from substandard nothing undeniably, supernaturally gathered and gaining

Practise, practise, practise, usurps the naysayer within – play=pretend players
Down upon bedraggled knees, begging us oh motherf**king please …

And we beg for this autistic awareness to proceed at being.
Recklessly real.
Red-ribboned, yet stealing a piece of our thunder.

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