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Jan 2015
Sometimes, as I lay, a metal blade confined in my hand.
Covering the piece of steel is the tears of my body.
The crimson flow like a river high in a mountain.
Current so smooth even the lightest of touches can ruin the flow.
It hurts, but that hurt feels good.
As I engrave, sometimes I write a name or a face.
To remember what I once had.
And sometimes I cry;
**Faster than the river flows.
A very bland poem about my struggle
Quentin House
Written by
Quentin House  Willard, MO.
(Willard, MO.)   
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