Something over and over again.
It's never the same even if it feels,
Like you are an automaton,
Because each movement needs some thinking,
Don't you think that's so?
Sometimes I don't,
But we both know,
That it's when you stop thinking,
That you die.
It feels like this poem's a product,
Of death, baked in a pie.
But that's alright,
It's been a while, I guess,
And like any act that you leave,
You need some warming upedness.
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