My Poetry
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That is the joke on the tongue of every morning sun, asking me to remember, and in morning weakness I lose life before lament.
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October 17
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I want to grind this poison to dust, fall headlong onto this blade and pray to a sightless god that has built a heart to beat me to stone.
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October 16
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When you are very close, I plead you to be closer, deeper than the proximity of touch, I will settle for no less.
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October 15
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There lie all the things I have known before, the same poisons supped and senses that failed, but I am razed on the thoughts of you and the
0 lines, 1 comment,
April 9
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