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I long to cut holes in my wrist, But those holes turn to eyes And the eyes see into me.  They stare back uncaring 
Shadows churning and spiralling Words endlessly applying themselves to paper A written goodbye So many times written before Yet here again the same words written
From my distant branch I see the nest of broken birds. They are huddled close together And shielded from the sun.   They’ve suffered wounds that nothing seems to staunch—
Do you ever stop to listen? Hear the agony in these walls? The fact that most of us are trapped in hell, as we shuffle through the halls? Do you ever stop to think, that maybe you might be wrong?
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