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My natural instinct is to make a home wherever my head lies

To pull closer to my surroundings

Often times then not my heart is shattered

Shattered from the claws of blackened hands

Reaching for my peace of mind

Poke and prodding at my nerves 

Like raw meat on a skewer 

Playing my tendons like the guitars strings I cling to

Draining my blood

With open hands I say

"Here let me help you with that."