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Poetry from a 12 year old me.
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So much for old wounds healing.
Disease seeping from every backhand
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Subtle variancies in spoken tones, / the bereavement, the loss, / the sound of idle chatter escaping closed mouths. / A sheer squeal on the outside / reveals a low hum of my inner workings. / There
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I wear her ring of love lost;
such frivolous reminders of what we demolished.
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I have lost all that is mine,
fallen so egregiously under your lock and key.
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But its the food that poisons me,
the lifelines that fail me.
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Tu es mon Roi Francoise;
Je suis ta Reine Americaine.
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I'm a bag of bones albeit joints,
a meaningless, functionless sack of divergent lines.
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One shot,
I'm dancing with two left feet.
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The sun sets early on my empire,
as I labor in darkness.
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I opened my eyes to the world,
and found the most grotesque of sights.
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Today I sunk my lowest.
The ropes were cut,
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I'm marching in the officers outfit,
but wheres my gun?
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Should the enemy strike, fire the cavalry.
Commander, shoot the goddamn stragglers.
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Recall the words that slipped from your mouth,
slither, they slithered as they changed the landscape of the earth.
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The vultures overhead scream
in a two part harmony of distaste.
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The police overhead cry "Dear God, we've found her!"
but there isn't much left to arrest.
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You have a very important call on line 2.
Don't pick it up.
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What frequency were you on?
I was on cigarettes, liquor and adrenaline.
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Ankle deep in unclean water,
it could be worse and I know this.
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It was as if I swam from an eel simply to cross paths with a shark,
a multitude of correlation between the two.
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Reflection, reflective.
Progression made through silence.
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She sees the world through the amber light
that she grips in her hand.
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Open.
Chaos, disregard flow.
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