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May 2020
The roses burn black,
The violets are dead,
This **** girl,
Won't get out of my head.
I hit the sack,
Out in the shed,
No roof, so the stars,
Reflect off my bed.
My heart has a crack,
But only the one,
The roses burn black,
While the heart goes numb.
Sketcher
Written by
Sketcher  18/M/Blaine, Washington
(18/M/Blaine, Washington)   
147
 
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