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May 2020
******* falling bricks,
Knock me to the track,
So I get the mud-view.
There is so much ****,
Pulling, holding me back,
From telling you, "I love you."
Bricks made of ego,
And track made of mud,
So the path I take,
Doesn't reduce the thud,
Of trauma to the head,
And boil to the blood,
So I wish for death,
Until the final fiery flood.
Sketcher
Written by
Sketcher  18/M/Blaine, Washington
(18/M/Blaine, Washington)   
87
 
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