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Artist: This Routine is Hell
Blood runs through the offices and fire’s what we breathe.
We write the poetry of the dead with every word we type.
Remarks are made.
Heads turn away.
They prefer to stay.
Behind gritted teeth our lies take shape.
Fed by a festering hate, they procreate.
You’ll shiver at what you’ll find inside.
Disgusted, there’s nothing left inside.
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