You wrote yourself in camouflage
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to see your eyes spelled out just right and you
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fired your last cannon ball-point pen.
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Across your parchment battlefield
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so toiled in rhyme and meter and
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your war of words began to meet its Hell today.
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Hold your words against the sun.
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It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string.
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Tied to one another, always searching for something.
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You'll throw your weapons down again
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and see the ink spilled through the page and you'll
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surrender your lasts thoughts to the machine again.
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Hold your words against the sun.
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It's like high-strung poets on a porcelain string.
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Tied to one another, always searching for something.
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Let the sun disguise the mystery
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of words describing misery.
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Face reflecting light beneath the
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thoughts I thought I'd never.
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-----------------
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High-Strung Poets
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The Evan Anthem |