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Jul 2015
Out of my hands, this is hot off the press.
The burning paper singes my hands
I drop the news on the floor;
I leave it for somebody else to find.
My brain cries out,
it is forever forced into corners
impossible equations with unbreakable solutions.
My mind asks a million questions,
my heart gives a million answers,
none of which I can follow,
it’s desperate.
And I see it.
And I feel it, and I know.
Whatever I do is wrong.
Martha O'Brien
Written by
Martha O'Brien  UK
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