America My writing is from the heart. I spend little time planning my poems. A thought pops into my head and I give it freedom.
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Let it die, Stop with the sunlight, The water, The care, It's a hopeless case. Once the rose is cut, All it can do is wither. It's too late to save it, Just let it die.
I thought this kind of looked like a vase but I didn't mean to do that.
I'm not saying that I want to die. Not right now, anyway. But lately, I just want to sleep. To sleep and never wake. I'm so tired. Tired of everything.
More than a year has passed, Since they built the wall, yet every night, I press my ear against the rough brick, hoping to hear his melodic voice again.
The little girl was sitting on the wall, Looking down on him with hate filled eyes. You broke the world, she said. And he didn't understand. But who ever understood anyway?