With her naggin of whiskey gripping the whole of her being – unwilling to let her move any such inch
Somehow ensconced by an utter inability to set any kind of fire all over again
This thing called pristine no longer managing to call out her name
The blame preposterously, rather problematically setting itself eerily in place – this particular taste too damn devoted to her saddened frown
Entirely painted the wrong way round
Down on her luck and far, far more
Rip-roaringly, frustratingly insane
This turning out to be her river of life right about now
No longer waxing, just a God awful full-on constant wane of painful inadequacy – atrocious meandering of a terribly soliloquy nature, the more she drinks the stranger the feat, the less she can courageously think
Yet this just seems to feel oh so natural
Perhaps the tragic manner in which she was sent to breathe in the very first peculiar instance
To have to attempt to coax her mind back one way or another
When a beautiful albeit nonetheless exceptionally flailing artist is born to remain forever smothered
Left with a crazy, inescapable thirst passed on to her by none other than her mirror-image mother – the undoubted noose let loose
Looking to snap its jaws around the next besieged generation
The one who set it all in petrifyingly liquified stone so as to unknowingly capture her very own
Shrinking-violet sensations the whole lot of them – one forlorn and utterly unasked for bottle cap stripping their lips at a tapestried time

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