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A healthy outside starts from the inside.

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From The Inside (Fun Poem 124)

Just imagine examining
your eyelids from the inside.
You close your eyes to rest them
and someone says you’re asleep,
but you are not, just examining
your eyelids from the inside.
Now how can anyone blame you
when you’ve been up
for twenty-four hours.
You don’t want to be rude
especially in front of friends,
so you just use the excuse
instead of saying your tired
that you are just examining
your eyelids from the inside.

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From The Inside Out

If you'd look at me
You could never see
That the love of you
Comes from the inside out
For upon my face
You'll find no trace
Of a love that's only
For you
It burns inside my soul
Putting me all a glow
It comes from the inside out
Even though I've never seen
Your face
You've always held that place
My heart it's just there for you
From the inside out
Some things were meant to be
My love for you
Is one of these
My Lord no one could ever
Take your place
For my love of You
Comes from the inside out

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Midnight From The Inside Out

Written by: r. robinson & c. robinson
You, with your fast and furlined mind
With your disregard of time, virtue, horizon
Here where the angels never sleep
Where the waters dark and deep
You breathe molasses
Chorus:
Midnight from the inside out
Turn around and they all fall down
Screaming red and the lights go out
Turn around and they all fall down
You, madness dripping from your tongue
While starting at the sun
You speak explosion
Up, with the flies around the moon
Needle, mirror, spoon and cotton candy

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From the Inside of Your Own Mind

Be you physically freed.
Or mentally tied up trapped in knots.
Encased in invisible limitations...
Viewed from a perspective,
You can not seem to stop!

It is 'you' that has to be faced.
It is 'you' that has to find your place.
It is you and no one other,
That has to unravel what it takes...
To deliver an approval,
No one can erase.
Or say what it is,
A happiness only you allow and make.
To give and let live...
From the inside of your own mind.

There for you to discover.
And there...
For 'you' as it is to define.

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From The Inside

I dont know who to trust, your surprise
Everything feel so far away from me
Have your thoughts sent through dust, and the lies
Trying not to break, but Im so tired of this to see
Every time I try to make myself get back up on my feet
All I ever think about is this, all the time and time between
And how trying to put my trust in you just takes so much out of me
Take everything from the inside
And throw it all away
cause I swear for the last time
I wont trust myself with you
Tension is building inside, steadily
You feel so far away from me
Have your thoughts forcing their way out of me
Trying not to break, but Im so tired of this deceit
Every time I try to make myself get back up on my feet
All I ever think about is this, all the time and time between
And how trying to put my trust in you just takes so much out of me
Take everything from the inside
And throw it all away
Cause I swear for the last time
I wont trust myself with you
I wont waste myself on you!!!
You!!!
You!!!
Waste myself on you!!!
You!!!
You!!!
Ill take everything from the inside
And throw it all away
cause I swear for the last time
I wont trust myself with you
Everything from the inside
And throw it all away
cause I swear for the last time
I wont trust myself with you
You
You
You

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From The Inside

I got lost on the road somewhere
Was it Texas or was it Canada
Drinking whiskey in the morning light
I work the stage all night long
At first we laughed about it
My long haired drunken friends
Proposed a toast to Jimmy's ghost
I never dreamed that I would wind up on the losing end

I'm stuck here on the inside looking out
I'm just another case
Where's my makeup where's my face on the inside

All got your kicks from what you saw up there
Eight bucks even buys a folding chair
I was downing seagrams on another flight
And I worked that stage all night long
You were screaming for the villain up there
And I was much obliged
The old road sure screwed me good this time
It's hard to see where the vicious circle ends

I'm stuck here on the inside looking out
That's no big disgrace
Where's my makeup where's my face on the inside

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Ghost from the war

A military base close to the border
that divides our country from that of the enemy,
a tent through which the wild wind
at gale force strength blows red sand,
pressed into a war by politicians
who decide about the destiny of men.

A trench where enemy soldiers,
women and children lie shot dead,
ripped apart by hand grenades
and mortar bombs
and from the outside
it looks like patriotism, national interest
for which you do service
but on the inside you are caught
by destiny
where other people like gods
take decisions that have an impact on you.

Dead are the innocent,
bystanders, a young man
who hasn’t even come to age
and there are flames
that burns right through the thorn bushes,
where a Ratel armoured car is burning
and I wonder about the presence of God,
about the lot of man
and the thorn bush burns, the whole veldt
is in flames.

Being lost makes me sober
while I try hard to forget
of the havoc that I know,
how war ravages, destroys, tramples
and how easily people die, especially those
that doesn’t really deserve it
and everybody are settled into
just another number and name.


[Reference: Ghosts from the call by Japie S Strydom:

a fortress,
a trench,
a tent,
an institution
for the mentally insane;
Big syllables on the outside in large characters type:
GET EVERYTHING HERE IN HUGE QUANTITIES

From the outside
a shadow that falls without end
from the inside a prison.

Being bound,
lost,
day long working, trying to remember,
remembering to withdraw,
to spend time, by writing meaningless sentences
wondered, though about:
mother,
our home,
brother
no Father.

a command,
a decree,
An invitation to recognize,
identification of:
a soldier
a man,
a boy,
still somewhat a child,
killed.

Killed between the branches
of a burning umbrella-thorn bush
almost like Moses with God,
but burnt right out of his boots
almost not stopped burning
with white phosphor that doesn’t want to die
I saw again today:

In the thick bush
man
– returned to earth
in the stomach blood of a boy
mixed with sand.” (My English translation.) ]

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The Concrete and the Abstract

The concrete is visible,
the abstract is invisible.
The concrete is the outside,
the abstract is the inside.
The concrete is objective,
the abstract is subjective.

People go on searching for
God in the concrete.
'We would like to see God'
-they say.

But only the concrete can be seen;
the abstract has to be felt.
The concrete can be seen-
with the eyes open,
the abstract has to be seen-
with eyes closed.

God is inside you, as you.
You cannot stand outside God
and see Him;
you can see Him
only from the inside-
by being Him.

If you see a flower,
you can look at it scientifically.
You look at the chemistry of it,
You dissect it and
you come to know
about the components of it.

But something is missed
in that very analysis.
The beauty is missed,
because beauty is not a component.
If you ask the scientist -
'Where is the beauty that was in the flower? ’ he will say-
'That was not there,
it was just an illusion.'

'I have dissected it-
all and all,
and these are the things
that I have found.
These chemicals were there,
this matter was there,
these atoms, these molecules....
but there was no beauty.'

But when the scientist
gives the flower to his wife,
he knows deep within his heart
he is not giving her
something chemical,
He is giving to her
the beauty of the flower.

A poet said -
'Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder',
But I say it lies in the heart of the lover.
That beauty is not be seen,
it has to be felt,
not from the outside,
but from the inside
by being the flower itself.

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Farce

It's not an identity
That displays the affinity.
It's the question of whose black,
That they keep themselves attacked!
Not from the outside but from the inside,
They seem closed as if afraid,
Stunted in a mindset dim...
That sheds no light to their shade.
And in this disposition...
There is a competition,
To show themselves aware...
Others might stop and stare!
But there are those who know who they are,
And shrug off being color barred!
Living to be inside color free.
Because the mind is not restricted,
By this farce...
Or predetermined destiny!

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Virtuous Women

Good Women
like Jewels Gems and Rubies
Rare and Distinguished and Unique
Virtuous Full Of The Spirit women
Kind Loving and Sweet.

Powerful Serving Women
Discerning Compassionate
and Pure
Sincere Holy Women
Biblical and Crystal Clear

Godly Dedicated Women
Committed Faithful and True
Praying, Praising, Fasting Women
Denying themselves too.

Obedient Wise Women
Who know the Voice of the Lord
Quiet Teachable Women
Who are United in One Accord.

Submissive, Honorable, Reverent Women
Who teach Daughters how to pray
Sensitive, Spirit-led Women
Who follow in God's Way

A Virtuous Women who can Find?
Where does this queen Reside
Virtuous Women are Made
and it starts from the Inside.

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I'll Be Back

Messages come, and make us suffer
A letter comes, and keeps on asking…
When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty

The one's I trust
A form of rose
Has written me this letter
And has asked me
Someone's breaths, Someone's heartbeat
Someone's desires, Someone's smile
Someone's dull mornings, sleepy evenings
Lonely nights, unsaid words
Longing arms
And have asked her
Longing eyes
That...

When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this house is empty

The ones with love
My best friends
Have wrote and asked me
My village, my people
Old trees, White clouds
Green grass, my soil
My celebrations, my religion
My farms, my land
My parents and
My wife has asked

When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you this country is lonely and empty

Sometimes a motherly river's letter comes by
And brings along
My childhood days, my games in the backyard
My mother's support, being protected
My mother's lullaby, the softness of her hands
The desire in the eyes, the worries in her words
Hard on the outside, Lovely from the inside
Acts my mom
And asks me in each letter

When are you coming?
When are you coming?
Write me when you're coming home
Without you my lap is empty

Hey the passing wind tell me
Will u please do a little favor for me?
Go to my state and salute to my friends
In that state there's a road
Where my wife and kids live
Just tell them that I love them
Just tell them that I love them
Further down that road
Is my old mother
Just touch her feet and
Say my name in her ear

Hey the passing wind
Just to my friends
My wife and kids,
And my old mother
Send them this message
And tell them that…
I will come home
I will come home
The promise I made to…
My soil
To its colorful nature
To my mother lap
To my blossomed flowers
And to someone's heart…
I will fulfill it

I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day
I will come back one day
This war will be over one day

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Come In From The Outside

Come in from the outside
Don't be ashamed
Come in from the outside
And bless His name
It's all on the inside
Where His glory reigns
Enter in
Come in from the outside
Just as you are
Come in from the outside
You're not too far
It's all on the inside
Simply open your heart
Enter in
(Chorus)
Everybody everybody
Everybody everybody
Everybody everybody
Let everything that hath breath
Praise the Lord
Everybody everybody
Praise
We're the generation
That will give You praise and adoration
Let Your kingdom come
Let Your will be done
Establish now Your throne, oh my Lord
O my Lord
Lord, Lord, Lord
Praise You Lord
Lord, Lord, Lord
We love You Lord
Lord, Lord, Lord
O my Lord
(Repeat Chorus)

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Looking From The Outside

I may happen to make things look that way...
But nothing I've known in my life,
Has been made for me easy.

As a child I disliked to hear folks say,
I got everything I wanted.
But they were looking from the outside.

On the inside unsolicited headaches,
Is what I got.
With chores to do that were unstoppable.

The first room I had to myself,
Was a converted closet.
And I slept on a cot.
Believe it or not...
On a street called Garden.

I may happen to make things look that way...
But nothing I've known in my life,
Has been made for me easy.

And as I age today reflecting back on those days,
People use to use others to boost themselves to heights.
By telling lies and hiding behind alibis,
To cover up their hatred felt and those they despised to spite.

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The Mole From The Ministry

If you think theres something wrong
Holes appearing on your lawn
Dont you blame the man next door
Its not him
Flowers walk from place to place
Dark spot moves around your face
Objects vanish without trace
Its not you
Im the mole from the ministry
And youll all bow down to me
Im the mole in your potting shed
Im the bad thoughts inside your head
And you wont catch me
(fish and visitors smell after three days)
If you thinks theres something strange
Garden starts to rearrange
From perfect lawn to mountain range
Its not you
Im the mole from the ministry
Working underground
And youll all bow down to me
Moving facts and figures all around
Im the mole in your potting shed
Undermine your world
Im the bad thoughts inside your head
And you shouldnt think me, no!
And you shouldnt think me
Mole
Mole
Mole

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I Can't Tell Bottom From The Top

And ev'rytime I get to thinking with ev'ry thought of you
I want to shout aloud
and then I think about the love
I had inside me and how you brought what's inside out.
So now love's made it to the outside
I want to tell the world of ev'rything I've found
somehow your love released a spring wound up inside me
you turned my living upside down;
And I can't tell the bottom from the top,
Am I standing on my head or on my heels ?
Is it cloudy, is it bright ?
Is it day or is it night ?
Am I wrong or am I right and is it real ?
Tell me where you learned the magic
the spell you used the day you made me fall
baby now I know that love is no illusion
I'm upside down
but ten feet tall.
And I can't tell the bottom from the top
Am I standing on my head or on my heels ?
Is it cloudy, is it bright ?
Is it day or is it night ?
Am I wrong or am I right and is it real ?
On and on I drifted with the tide
I didn't know that love could move me so
you filled my life with love and much more besides
and you showed me which way to go;
And I can't tell the bottom from the top
Am I standing on my head or on my heels ?
Is it cloudy, is it bright ?
Is it day or is it night ?
Am I wrong or am I right and is it real ?
And I can't tell the bottom from the top
Am I standing on my head or on my heels ?
Is it cloudy, is it bright ?
Is it day or is it night ?
Am I wrong or am I right and is it real ?

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From deep inside

Smile comes from deep inside
If you have dream with full desire outside
It gives some sort of contentment
A means to smile for happy moment

I am not sure for airing open views
But yes certainly it was very much due
As I heard he had proposed for me in open
Among all friends and that too with surprise and sudden

I have made tremendous success
All the essential things with easy access
I keep smiling with light heart
As time has taught me to show it as an art

Not to loose heart with little problems
As my roots were deep in soil and coming out of stem
I could withstand any onslaught caused by nature
I had full commitment towards life for future

Not a day passes off when I am not seized
With the thought of permanent settlement before being ceased
Any girl with good fame may want it to be the top priority
Not to suffer with any kind of the inferiority

I keep all doors and windows open
Let the fresh air make entry and flow in
I get the fancy ideas with cool breeze
To come out in open from the deep freeze

Big smile instead of keeping self in barren desert
That is real beautify of person while taking part in concert
No out side worries enter peaceful mind
Disturb with mantle fabric from where unable come out and find

I laugh it out as matter of no concern
Good days may pass off easily with arrival of bad days in turn
Under such scenario smile helps a lot
I remain unperturbed and quiet

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I Am Woman On The Inside

Don't shame me
I am Woman on the inside
But Man on the outside
I am as straight as an arrow
But gay at heart
I feel every pulse surrounding me
I weep quietly sometimes
Other times I can't contain my floods
I am alive, I feel, I dance, I salsa, I tango with life
Every beat captivates my curious eyes
Magnifies my looking glass
When I hug you in the morning
I'll hug you over again
Morning, noon and night
I feel your sorrows
Before they knock down your door's heart
I laugh at your feet
When I see the hole in your sock
I reek with God's humanity
Freely I give myself to your cross
And the Enlightenment I seek
Caring for our shared lotus
I embrace your Torah and my Koran
I am Women on the inside
But Man on the outside
I free the lioness arising within me
From societies locked gages
I touch, kiss, hug, and hold you tight in public places
I am your lilac, your rose,
Your orange blossom and jasmine perfume
I am Women on the inside
But Man on the outside
I am spring folding to summer in full display
But when your winter's claws like a thief in the night
Tearing the carcasses of our lives
Then swiftly with a hug and a tear
I let you know you center my heart
I am Women on the inside
But Man on the outside
I listen quietly to what you have to say
With two receiving ears and my one listening month
I speak with understanding eyes
Not drowning your song with my tongue
I am Women on the inside
But Man on the outside
With my responsive fingers
I pluck the strings of your delicate harp
But when called upon
With my determined breath
I blow the mighty tuba of fate away
I am Women on the inside
But man on the outside
Celebrate my candle lit the joining of my two souls
For I am Women on the inside
And Women on the outside

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Patrick White

Why Do Children Of The Poor

Why do children of the poor die so readily?
By the age of five
they're already disarmed for life.
Is money a gene they're missing?
Or is their suffering
just a diminished immunity to the rest of us?
The gluttons of knowledge
discuss James Joyce in a loud voice
in well-lit universities.
With great nuance and finesse
they enumerate the seven kinds of ambiguity
and the mean diameter of the vowel O
in the context of neo-Chicago Aristotelianism
in the latter plays of Shakespeare
where the commas fall like worms
out of every page of his art
as if he couldn't punctuate
the death-rage in his heart
with the subtler points
of the neo-critical literati.
I think Shakespeare would have seen
the sterling irony
of debating proto-Nostratic linguistics
while living children all around him
can't read their names in their own mother-tongue.
If the same word for oak
was the word we used for door
when we all learned to speak the same language
milennia ago
it's not hard to imagine
given modern advances in communication
that the word for child
that we used way back then
is the root of the word we use for atrocity today.
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
Nature or nurture?
Is it because the children of the rich
are taught that wealth is longevity
and the children of the poor
who can't read the fine print
bleed to death like expired medical plans?
Why do the rich think that the poor
are the reason their children suffer
and the best thing to do is make orphans of them
by sending the poor of one nation
to war against another
to keep the economy growing
and cut back on the unemployed
like deer culled from a budget in hunting season?
If you're a child born from this womb
and you grow up fat and cuddly
you've still got
a back-up heart transplant in the bank
but if you're a child born from this one
to thrive on nothing
you look for lifeboats
and see nothing but rocks.
You reach out to the watching world
like a camera
with big questions
in your unaccusing eyes
about what is happening to you
in the arms of your helpless mother
and the world looks back at your tiny corpse
swollen with hunger
like the uninhabitable planet
of your empty stomach
as if it were all just part of your bad luck
that you were born at the mercy of flies
clustering like first world pharmaceuticals
on the black market
of your third world eyelids.
Why are the children of the rich
born into health and favour
and the children of the poor
are slaves to sex and labour?
Have you ever thought about
how many children had to die
to make your running shoes?
Like all those who died
giving birth to the blues
so you could put your suffering
to their music
like the lyrics of the squeamish rich
to the heart-sick voices of the poor?
Why do the children of the poor
die so readily in bad neighbourhoods
where the streets are named for strangers
who all live somewhere else like slumlords?
Insane waste of light and love.
Desecration of heart and mind
Of genius and compassion.
Of cures for cancer
and violins that can play
like willows by a river in the wind.
There's nothing unfinished about a child
as if the green apple
were any less than a ripe one.
Growing up among the living means
that at every moment of your life
you've reached your full potential
and you realize that nothing's ever missing.
Everything is whole and beyond perfect just as it is.
That's innocence from the inside out.
And then someone steps in
and teaches the child
how much it must suffer like the rest of us
just to be itself.
That's the beginning of a rich man's religion
from the outside in.
This child's afraid of losing face
and this child's not allowed to have one.
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
Why do some children go to summer camp
the way others go to prison
to earn their tats like scout badges?
Why are the children of the poor
turned into baby rattlesnakes
like seven year olds with AK-47s
that are as poisonous as the adult ones?
Why do the children of the poor go to war
while the children of the rich go to college?
There's nothing in the world
a poor child can take for granted.
Life is a wound
that deadens the mind in time
if you're alive enough to endure it.
There are young girls in Afghanistan
who are risking their lives every day
just to learn to read.
Omar Khayyam says
The moving finger writes
and having writ moves on
nor all thy piety nor wit
can lure it back to cancel half a line
nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
So the Taliban are resorting
to splashing acid in the eyes
of their sisters and daughters
to see if that works better than water.
And the National Rifle Association
inside the classroom
and outside the hospital
is defending the right
by force of the second amendment
as it's written in the Constitution
for every child to pack a lunch
the way their teachers pack guns to school
in pursuit of American happiness
and higher learning
with a competitive edge.
Why do the lean children of the poor die so readily
like one of the seven plagues of Egypt
in back alleys and abandoned buildings
with needles stuck in their arms
while the obese children of the rich
are having the fat of the land removed surgically?
Why do the rich spend twenty million dollars
on a painting of a child
with impressionist skin by Renoir
while a real child lies torn at their feet
in a surrealistic abattoir
signed in its own blood
like the masterpiece of an unknown genius?
Why is so much squandered on the rarity of things
than on their commonality
like children and green oxygen?
Why are movie-stars and football players
paid more on a yearly basis
to live out our fantasies of sex and violence
than it would take
to keep all the children in the Sudan
healthy and alive for a year?
Is it better in this world
to be born a corrupt politician
with a command of words like maggots
than it is to be born innocent
and have nothing to say for yourself
because you're too young
to speak for anyone else
even when you're murdered?
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
How does it come about
that the United States Supreme Court
accords an oil corporation
all the rights and privileges
of a genuine bigger-than-life individual
backed up by a birth certificate
from a lapwing government
though it's a succubus among humans
and twenty-five million children a year
die anonymously in misery
right at the peak of their suffering
like the fame of the nameless logos
on a generic death
where one size fits all?
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
Is it because the poor are waiting for lung transplants
that have been inflated into footballs
to score political points
for a ghoul in a governor's office
to balance the budget like death
in favour of the rich
who are waiting for yachts?
Is it because the road we were on
just suddenly got up one day
like human evolution
and walked away from us in disgust
to go look for the lost children
we left like the wings on our heels in the dust?
Is it because as Basho says in a haiku
for those who say
they have no time for children
there are no flowers
and we're so blind to the peach blossoms
we can't see the depth of the curse in this
that we give so little mind
to what we have uprooted from the garden
as if the children of agrarian Adam
scratching for a living in the dirt
weren't as legitimate as those
that were sired
by an industrial
Johnny Appleseed?
Is it because the children of the poor
are born first
to be thrown into the mouths
of corporate Moloch and Wall Street Baal
like a blood sacrifice to a cosmic monstrosity
just so Carthage doesn't fall again
to the venture capital
of down-to-earth Romans
like the price of salt on a sterile market
or the soil of the Love Canal?
Is it because the children of the poor
are the expression of a death-wish
to raise our own assassins
as the only way of finding forgiveness
for what we did to them
before during and after they were born?
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
Is it because we think of the children of the profligate poor
as the repeating decimals
of a future that goes on forever incommensurately
like one generation after another
or a clepshydra of blood
or a tiny thread of a mindstream
trickling down from the top of the world mountain
like a loose thread of life
that we think we can sever their lives anywhere
or pull down the pillars of pi
by cutting their legs out from under them
like the fundamentals of life
without drawing the knife across our own jugular
like the intestate balls of a castrated ram
or the throat of a wedding bell without a womb?
Why do the children of the poor die so readily?
Is it because...

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Gain from the cupped hand of fate

love awakens the pain
Loss starts the hatred
Choose not to disturb, gain
From the cupped hand of fate

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On the inside

If your family loves you on the out side and hates you on the inside, that is worse then hate through and through, for you have a hard time not only seeing it, but excepting it, thus making it more difficult to detach your self from this poison.

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