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Ive come along ways from some stranger days to show it. Now i write understanding truth and how. I know that from my ashes arose this poet. Articulating our clashes with truth he sacrifices my youth to know it. Words belong to ideas poetry belongs to dreams. Ideally ill dream of painting with your screams. Poeticly picaso-ing every thing you know, with this gramaticly illogical destruction of a poem killing the prose i show
but the wickedness of my soul spat in its face
good things dont happen to me and so the ones i love are spared and their forgotten demons i have set free
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forever soaked in its pain in emptyness i am a king
the bottom of my world was a few words that bled out from with in my bones
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a soul for every painfully foolish threshold that hid a door
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ok?
im done being wicked, to myself and my life. ive gained a strength from these demons ive worshiped, one born of sorrow too constant strife our required sacrafice.
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the liquid with in me flows onward tainted by love and betrayed by hate for the ocean
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Sat back and watched him fall apart so long to spoil his meat.
Now i know every thing that shines isn't gold or worthless enough to leave behind.
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Step for step i take in in my stride with my pride so arrogantly over grown.
Along the way i collect every single unburried bone.
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Oh the marks we've missed
The crushed dreams we clench within our fist
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The air around me muffles my trembling breaths and covets my shivering body, taunting death.
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You've stolen the food from my mouth to satisfy your teeth.
still I lick the plate clean to see what's beneath.
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