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Jun 2016
Why is it that at the end of every sentence I write.
There's a man with a knife piercing it's blade into the back of my brain.
My mind feels colder this year.
Minutes die faster but hours live longer.
Half-empty water bottles like my goals scattered across my room.
I wrapped a noose around concequences neck and kicked the chair he stood on.
I watched his legs dangle like dancing ballerinas on top of a frozen creek.
His face went colorless.
Then I buried him beneath my bed.
Jo Baez
Written by
Jo Baez  Los Angeles, Ca.
(Los Angeles, Ca.)   
279
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