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The Incoherent Ramblings of a Blood Related Abomination

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It's the little things that make my head spin,
It's not about them, but it's where you've been.
I'm not pure gold, but I refuse to be trash,
Don't sell me for scraps that you'll leave in a dump.

A metal bucket full of chemical slop,
melting my heart out
But you know I can't stop

I miss the days
When I lived with no aid.