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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Just another something found in a notebook.

Submitted: April 26, 2007

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Submitted: April 26, 2007



Listenin close at the point it hurts the most
Biding my time as I wait for the signs
That it's a good day to die - My thoughts still rely
On wakin, thinkin of you, feelin a fool
Smelling your perfume in my clothes
Weeks later though - I smell it but it isn't there
Rememberin the touch of your hair
A feelin like this is rare, managing to tear
Up my subconscious in waking life
Emotion full of strife, a sharp slice of a knife
Buried deep enough it would hurt more to remove,
To lose - this fucked up love you instilled in me
And could it be, this is killin me
A savior in THC, til I wake up again empty
Why should I look inside, I tried.. And I cried
On so much I relied, a part inside must've died
It's pathetic to think this, and worse to write it
It's a waste of my time and might it
Really be myself hurtin me this badly
Sweet release of sleep I accept gladly
But you're in here too
Makin me a fool, and untrue
Why is it the worst to lose
Somethin that wasn't meant to be
That was just terrible for me 

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