Here's fifteen minutes,
yeah, to plant your flowers.
Heartbeat skipping and 
tongue spitting, dripping 
with ink, skinny dipping
in sorrows, climbing towers.
When your mouth is like a motor 
 at ninety miles an hour.
Feeling empowered but
you're just a shroud of
and the ghost of doubt.
And time runs out
with your voice loaded like
a stick of c4,
and before you have the chance
fifteen minutes have come and past,
and fame has eluded your clasp,
never have the curtains ever closed so fast. 


The End

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