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Spaghetti knots

b(us)urp

dear world

the least you can do

is tell us

how many of us

do you need

to make us

feel needed

and to stop the rest

of us

from feeling

like the least dear

*

they moan

that you are deceased

which will make lively discussion

around the dinner table

where your uncle burps

a bout of how you aren’t doing much

a conclusion you agree with

having to listen to him

and the indigestion that will come

after you throw-up the small talk

and etiquette and expectations

that you were sired into

as a flower is

knowing the wind and wishing to move

to the soil over there that it needs

but being unable to

with a sun that dries

the dewed tears

that barely make it

to the stuck and stumped roots

who suckle it back into dried, dangling channels

that the uncle dug once with forked fingers

and full, stuffed

forgetting how his belch echoes still

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

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