Autobiography

You have words seething with stories.
Words are not whole stories in pocket.
You have to bridge spaces in between.

Words are to others an interestingness
The way you guide your downcast eyes
Drilling through  vast gold paved street

Where your hell was with a brimstone
And horned creatures would fry stuff,
Words that made your stories belly up.

Words are memories to left of a sleep
When sleep turns to the right of pillow,
Dreams that invent a pain in stomach.

Dreams are planes crashing on a sleep.
They have memories from underbelly
Those that turn your old egos belly up.

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