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A thousand pieces
Of the same whole
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Dissolving from the inside
Vanishing with the high tide
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Your own worst enemy to the core
How dare you come back asking for more
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Beyond our own horizons
Each of us is blind
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Here's to the man who made me jealous of a window
the steam condensing and trickling roughly down it
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The steam on the window reminded me of you
as it slipped down the window in rough streams
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caught in the middle of opposing generations
both agree i'm incorrect...
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Nothing more than a coward
I stand before the judge
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There was an age when I dreamed about daddy
I had fantasies about the day he'd whisk me away home
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Sanity
Such a highly overrated aspect of society
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Last night, tears fell
Such a needless waste; you should have saved them
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A certain number of crimes are committed
In each and every lifetime
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Innocence: the color white
So easily stained from the slightest touch
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It's not the most
Nor the least
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I think I've finally identified the mechanical ones.
All these accusations have flown for years
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Broken child lying on the steps of Everything
Fingers latched tightly to the last strands of hope
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So cold in a seventy degree room
Because hope is too far away
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Every hour crawls by
Each day moves faster still
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Don't let them see you crying
Don't let them see you dying
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I don't make sense today at all, most likely.
You see, I've been off chocabo hunting.
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Snow blowing by the window
And piling along the pane
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Who were you in my dream?
Your short-winged daughter
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My name was Mary long ago
But now its Kat
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Head fallen on a desk
Arms tucked neatly underneath
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I've forgotten
who, when, where I am
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I have a dream
Of a day when we do not throw ourselves into stereotypes
by Lyra
47 lines, 4 comments,
on Jan 15 12:30 AM 2005. In Society
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Just by reading what was written mere months ago
The tears come
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The eras of my mind twist so slowly
"How did you write this?"
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The emotions behind the prevailing wind
Bring it to monsoon force, furious, enraged-
by Lyra
23 lines, 18 comments,
on Dec 24 4:52 PM 2004. In Personal
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If I whispered your name a million and one times
Would you still be deaf to my calls?
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I am from the green hide-a-bed and the black jeep
The blind dog and matching Halloween costume
by Lyra
78 lines, 4 comments,
on Sep 9 8:14 PM 2004. In Personal
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The mist billows coolly from the trees
Born of the forest's union with the dawn
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The pages turn and the poems begin to blend
Into a quill of their own
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The brief tastes of freedom you've given me
Pulse forever on the backs of my eyelids
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