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I'm worried 'bout you
and that magic powder
you throw in my eyes
when I fall into sleep-
You must get sleepy,
keeping awake for us,
whipping up batches
while we fall into sleep-
Poof! Gas station man
you become a poet,
a dash of powder
as you fell into sleep-
the salesman becomes
revolutionary,
the janitor now
a musician instead.
How do you make it,
does it keep you awake?
What are you thinking
as I fall into sleep,
sleepwalking into
lazy expectations?
Am I just one
more
person you love
enough
to throw powder on?
You must be sick to death
of everyone's needs,
must lose a lot of faith
when we who have it,
our own machinery
for powder making
are taking all of yours
as if it were ours.
I want you to keep it.
I'll build my machine
to make my own powder
and I'll let you keep yours
to keep your own soul
unless you have extra
when I'm falling asleep.
I love you too much
to keep falling asleep.
-e.
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