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at the time of my death,
it would be a whimper
in the dark, full of regret
and shame
secrets, are no fun,
secrets hurt someone,
for now, poetry can
between day & night,
splitting all metaphysical hairs,
she is, in awe.
making things love,
it doesn't mean its love,
its beauty only
records of my thoughts,
my emotions, its a personal history,
but not my everything
the days may seem long poetry,
but ive lived more in
the words i write, than anywhere else
to live first,
everything else is optional,
besides consequences
created a isolated world
than plucked
myself into reality,
for impulsive reasons.
you're never alone
under escort, visiting life,
I'm unable to command modern times,
at least here I can be god of words.
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