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On the worst days, I repeat ridiculous mantras
To salve my skittered soul, in a kind of muttered prose of peace,
Giving the frantic mind it's small, measured buffer of nonsense,
Because otherwise I can't breathe, and eating's no fun either
And I'm no good at all to you, once I break down.
So I'm glueing and taping myself together again
Hoping it will last another week
But there's always another; and another
And my flowerpot helmet is beginning to feel so heavy now...
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