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wandabitch
Poems
Sep 2018
Moldy
Black mold holds its breathe
On the ceiling
These bedsheets are soft
And the bottle dry
Suffer in silence,
Mr. tobacco smile
Burning regret
Peels my skin.
I can hear my vagabond mind
Racing
I’ve got you in my thought
My breathe stinks up the air
As I stare at the ceiling
And it weighs
Heavy
On me.
Written by
wandabitch
Promethea
(Promethea)
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Nik Bland
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