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Created on: September 30, 2010
It's just imbalance,
which topples me over.
Nothing special,
no four-leaf clover.
No bitter coffee bean,
ground to dust.
Or a sheaf of plastic,
used in lust.
It's just imbalance,
that's all it is.
Bubbles to my brain,
with sparkling fizz.
I float like a stone,
through mist and rain.
Smokey black-steps,
greet my gain.
To the middle I spin,
for what? Say I.
To be happy, if fake,
till the day I die.
Learn more about this author, Jack Blatish.
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