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Feb 2021
Blood stained sheets,
   the smell of **** and ****,
      creases in white linen , never looked so colorful
          endless rivers of tears and anguish,
              dreary flowers in drool stains,
                    if sheets could talk. . .
                        they would beg "please stop"
                            above a never ending bedrock of old mattress springs,
                               that groin and creak,
                                   a tectonic shift of emotions,
                                         disturbed by a thunderous voice
                                               " clean yourself up, sorry"

a reminder you had your way. . .
         -ŘÃƤẸ
A Poet
Written by
A Poet  The Moon
(The Moon)   
93
   NAN
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