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  • Death

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    broken down with nothing but pain inside
    desinacrating slowly until all happyness is deprived
    searching for joy but heart break is all she finds
    hating her life, she curls in a ball and cry
    no one able to hear her, except the raptured voices inside
    raping her soul until the control over-rides
    sliting her wrist hoping that the lies will bleed out and die
    telling herself that the pills will do as she does nothing but sigh
    falling deeper into darkness,she continues to decay and die

    ...........................

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    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    Punkrocker101’s Poems (14)

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