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Daan
Poems
Aug 2017
Working men
The sound is uncontrollable,
it bangs, it knocks, the side of my head,
it rolls and rocks, my face turns red,
with anger, I burst, it burns.
The door was closed, I cursed,
isolated yet easily approached,
it searches me, I feel hunted,
I feel poached.
I yell, I scream, it's all the same,
from inside, it's different,
it's not getting anywhere, I hurt,
my cries were never heard.
I wash away the dirt, build up
after days of focus, my dreams, they mention
attending a funeral for my attention.
It's a working title.
Written by
Daan
Belgium
(Belgium)
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