Pushing My Luck All The Time

I am not down on my hope or down on my luck.
After the denouement, I will be facing the curtain with a bow.

But if illness was to unravel itself like a cheap mystery novel , like the way I have been imagining it to, you could find my bloody nails clenched tightly around a crumpled note revealing a spot that is as black as cancer.
Blind and dumb, my deceased witnesses would only have been able to remember how the story embedded so deep within my chest was written.
Readers would never know the verbal terrors that were sobbing from the painful stones that nursed the kind of thoughts that gained ground on me, the ones waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
The ones that were tumorous growths being ripped out of my body to reveal ten months of writers block that's chased me into a dim lit stage scattered with hollywood scripts.
Fiction has been breeding so quietly each night and day, and facts have died again and again only to extend their killing life.
I am not down on my hope or down on my luck, and in a few more days everything will become my tired fiction.

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