Distasteful

A taste like sour milk at the back of your throat,

Dissatisfaction with what is and what isn’t,

No matter how many times you swallow, it remains,

Forcing the bend of your spine,

And your eyelids half closed over your eyes,

You morph into some half-living corpse,

Unable to figure anything out,

Except to find a grave for which your body can lay,

Yet the cemetery seems to be full at the moment,

Your life goes on, as does the taste in the back of your throat,

Taunting you of what is and what isn’t.

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