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Scrubbing Floors at 3 AM

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the water does not scald as it should,
despite my pinkened feet.
it is eternal -- the filth -- I think,
and every action has some immoveable permanency
I wish was mere mud
on boots,
on floor,
to tend to at 3 AM.

but I can't lift these sorts of stains
for the life of me.

(A poem on self-loathing, along with a few more ambiguous meanings)

The Trap Door in the Floor of the Sky Above the Atheist

I unearthed my god
but now they were in the wrappings of symptoms, of suffering.
Even more so in the rebound of that pain: the prodding over the tender, the wincing.
Then the face in the release, the relief.
That light so often described,
only different, as I found it illuminating
even the mundane corners
of life.

(A poem about finding spirituality in the simple things)
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Forever Sleepy
I really do like this, a lot.

My first thought upon reading the thread title (scrubbing floors at 3am) was this old PSA-style thing about Meth, though:

Don't mind me, I have a fucked up sense of humor and weird things make my imagination roam.
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