Are we not brains and bleeding hearts
furnished by the almighty?
Are we not the pages where psychics
read into second sight?
Are we not the journey into the open mind?
As if it were the sea!
The nightmares between top earning human lines.
As if blind ambition could ever see.
Poets are proof of god, omnipotent is rhyme.
We write for hours, with the hands of time.
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