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Better

Every day,
First he pounds his fists
Second his screaming persists
Then he turns his face
Towards the door, and starts a race
He smashes what he sees,
And crashes things
Every day,
Like the ogre of his times
Every day,
Like an immortal king
Forever he has that throne

Every day,
In my life there is a pattern
A poem that rhymes
A poem for him, of him, and not me
Every day,
This trash of poetry
A spill of feelings,
Full of anger, because
I do not know better

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