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By Chris McCaughan, My anger is a sign of disgust with myself
A stewing
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By Chris McCaughan, It’s too late for old dreams
All my life I made
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By Chris McCaughan, This brain is a buzzing beehive
Swarming thought infestation
My muscles pulse
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By Chris McCaughan, The war will never end
It crackles through the speakers
I watch
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By Chris McCaughan, I tie my shoes
Leave the house
Board the train, keep on