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fancyleftovers
fancyleftovers
I am not a writer, nor aspire to be one. / I like my head lead-free.
*Paint my life with the blood from your veins*
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Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 5:50 AM UTC
Chaos
*Before I leave, to never see you again, good luck and good riddance, farewell my friend.*
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Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 6:31 PM UTC
Farewell
Such temple is my skin Blood fills me within As a sprogg faintly bargaining The rushing steel is to me akin Suddenly I see In the corner of these eyes of mine Things I once believed Considered now but a crime The drops drip down Warming the rain that falls Compared to a mare with no mount Free, imense, and whole Such temple is my skin Blood fills me within As a sprogg happily bargaining The rash steel is to me akin
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Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
IV
They used all their words for the day Without knowing what that made Now knowing how afar and big Of a chasm that would create She tried her apologies Words softly spoken He was numb as well as hurt From all the times he was broken 'That's not what the poem said' He said to himself frowning 'That's what she wants it so say' The conclusion was so easily drowning .. As much as I want things to change As much as I want things to be different That's as hopeless as a dog in the rain Looking at you with tired eyes, incessant The rain does this to him And thus no sympathy grows From the people who obviously pass him by And the love those people never show
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Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
II
I lay in this bed breathing While the sanity of my mind is leaving When I caught myself believing That I was able to find love Did not judge me such a fool As I found other people cruel Rage has allways been life's fuel Now I say that it is enough Why is this silence so amusing To a person used to losing At my love's messages perusing Wondering why everything ought to be this tough Through bad and worse we used to swear Now it's no longer what we care I no longer look and stare I no longer love.
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Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
I
I wonder if I'll dream of death again I wonder if tonight's the night my dream will cease to be
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Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 8:06 PM UTC
Dreams
Trying to define poetry is as wearisome as grasping one's teardrops in the ocean.
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Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 7:32 AM UTC
Poetry