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Death, the escape from this place we "live" in.
To wipe all our "sins" clean and move on beyond this realm.
The thing that allows us to finally be truly free, want or not.
To rid us of our nightmares, and pain, and hate.
In return for us losing our loved ones, joy, our memories.

Death, the beginning and end.
I decided to post a second poem today because I'm most likely not going to post one tomorrow.
Remember to tell me what you think!
War
War, the war to end all wars they said, only they told lies,
For pain, conquest and wealth is what they devise.
~
War, the war to bring freedom they said, yet, the only ones free,
are the ones that lost their lives.
~
War, the war to bring a great leader to guide us all, but only
they control the leader, and they control them all.
This is just a little poem I thought I would throw on here, I have do have a much deeper meaning for it, good job if you can find it.

Also I might not be able to post tomorrow (3/23/18) but I will try to, I'm lucky I was even able to post one today.
Blame, the thing we have all done, the thing we do to shame the
one who did it all.
~
Blame, the thing we do so much, for if we didn't do it, our thoughts
would just combust.
~
Blame, the thing we consider immature, is the thing we all do, to
shame the one who did it all.
Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet some of us aren't able to
reach it, and they are left down here.
~
Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet those who don't, somehow make
it there from down here.
~
Fame, the thing most of us want dear, yet those who get it, are usually
always in a fuss.
~
Fame, the thing most of want dear, but not me, because I'm fine
just down here.
I am trying out a new style of writing my poems, but this is one of my favorite poems that I wrote so far.
Don't forget to tell me what you think!
Life, the long played game, of pain and fame in the brain.
These are the things that drive our hope, of things to come,
a dwindling hope and a prize. These are the things that drive
the game of pain and fame in our brains.
This is a copy of the oldest poem I remember writing, so it may not be the best.
Pain, the thing that never leaves us alone, for pain is the
closest friend we all disgust.
Pain, the thing that lets us know we are hurt, in one way or
another, we all have to cope.
Pain, the thing that we never want to feel, but if we never felt
it, how are we sure, we're still down here.

— The End —