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Jun 2018
I am a puppet with lowly strings,
The children they laugh hollow echos in my ears,
Make it disappear,
The demons they say,
They’re in my head,
Yet writing through my hands they blead,
How fast must one address these things in order to bring peace at night,
Alone in crazy’s might,
May I be persistent in my failures of sleep or can death just take tool...?
I think I’m going crazy.
Abigail Fischer
Written by
Abigail Fischer  17/F
(17/F)   
67
 
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