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Literature Text
Sometimes, I've not aged a day since I turned 17,
And some of the time I'm an retiree.
Very rarely I'm my own age.
I don't think you want to know when.
And some of the time I'm an retiree.
Very rarely I'm my own age.
I don't think you want to know when.
Literature
Downcast
Climbing the pillar of heaven to reach for the axis of stars he carries a spite in his purpose that hope and bright memory still mars but still, he shall reach for the axis to shatter the cross he once bore and draw down the flames of the mantle that all will be ash at his door.
Literature
Brave Months
I am tired of Junes brave summer months told to breathe new life into my lungs killing me instead with eyes like million suns with talons made of light with teeth of gold, biting into my bleeding skin I am tired of seething Julies and boiling August brave months of torturous gleam fit just under my eyelids burning me with hope for the autumnal wind
Literature
Crying in the Kitchen
The bile thick and sickly sweet Permeates my lips every time our eyes meet. There are lines, lies laced with hope threatening to escape with questionable intent. If I told you I love you, I'd need to repent.
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