we tiptoe barefoot across naked land
simmering, slowlike, seething beneath sand
tastefully tempted by timid trepedations
hollowly holding back from hectic hallucinations
cause maybe it's you, but maybe it's me
but i can't seem to forget the anxious fee
cautiously providing just a little piece
never giving the whole package, only signing a lease
but fever always start fair, flighty, just, abrupt
until we're left bare, empty, broken, corrupt
breathing, no panting, for some clean air
exhale the green smoke, but choking is rare
finally feeling full, completely satisfied
we pretend we're done, and now is time to fly
but always remembering that it's just geography
and that even though we're swept up in the choreography
the world will show no leniancy, it is cold - complete
but if you don't try to change it it will have no chance to replete
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