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Anonymous

SadEyes

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Bronze Poet

Sick

Sick
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Recurring nightmares

Strike again and again

Blood drawn each and every time

I grow ill

I grow weak with blasphemous thoughts

Thoughts that gnaw at my happiness

Happiness, I’ve long to lull me to sleep

Sleep grows to be impossible

Impossible for me to deny my own death

Death becomes possible

Death lulls me to sleep

 





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