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May 2015
Words no longer have meaning.
I strip them of their false hope,
reaching spaces in between,
letters like notes in a song,
between which, the truth
is told.

You couldn't pry this void from me.
I grasp onto it like a greedy child,
sloppy and heady from
your soury-sweet mother's-milk,
drunk like you never were
from my ***.
RMatheson
Written by
RMatheson  Beating tired bones
(Beating tired bones)   
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