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Sometimes, I see it in their eyes. Their irises are green, like a spring day And their pupils black, like a midnight sky.   When they are awake, Their irises are the color of green grass,
Treassures, our creations.
The hood will be the death of you. teens trying to be top man on the block but not trying to be to man of the class. See I'm really trying to do good and get an education, but all these gun shots and drugs are disrupting my concentration .
Poetry is a gatewayThe cliché strikes againBut why is a break in a wall what poetry has becomeHumans are not wallsWe are living, breathing soulsWith the ability for loveFor heartbreakAnd for repair
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