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This poem is not important.
It was the coward's way out, he knew. He could feel it rolling around in his gut like a stupidly cheerful puppy.
Why I Write. Well, I write because my lips are sealed, Im speechless, The words on the paper stab at my meekness and rips open my flesh, Only to show that the outside is decent but the inside is a mess.
Acid rain Crawling through your twisted veins Stealing the eyes that used to see The other side.   Now I've tried  I've opened my mind  To an endless possibility 
I nonchalantly sat their alone while the night sky fell upon me, while rodents ran past my feet. The stench of overfilled trash dumpster and the worlds left over garbage of people sat near by.
A loss of a life A hole in this heart My horrors realized as I watch him Needles scattered about him As cluttered as his life Just sitting there, now at his lowest point Blowing that smoke which poisons
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