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Cobbling the letters like nails into shoes we could use, we hobble confused hammered abused by the thought caught in the flow and words as we know are cruel and kind, like silk lined sows ears sobbing like tears in the dust but we must continue to hammer away cutting into each day as we cut into our heart to impart what we think and the ink turns to blood because we knew that it would. It is our life.
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Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
The writist
Cobbling the letters like nails into shoes we could use, we hobble confused hammered abused by the thought caught in the flow and words as we know are cruel and kind, like silk lined sows ears sobbing like tears in the dust but we must continue to hammer away cutting into each day as we cut into our heart to impart what we think and the ink turns to blood because we knew that it would. It is our life.
john-edward-smallshaw
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Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
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