Cancer

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
To me, this poem can mean a lot of things so I'm just going to let you read it and decide that for yourselves.

Submitted: April 01, 2014

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Submitted: April 01, 2014

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The leaves have turned yellow, my face has turned red.

Now the leaves have fallen, the leaves are dead.

"Here comes winter." The old man said.

The cuts and scars inside of me are not from who I am, but who I use to be

The scars on my wrist aren't visible, and every word I say is invisible

but the scratches inside are still in me, and sometimes...they still do bleed.

I put on a band-aid in hopes it will work-

but nothing can help this or cover up the hurt.

The winter was long, cold and sad.

The winter was good, but sometimes bad.

I took a trip to see the old man

The silence screamed "No!" and my concious asked "Why?"

The silence said, "because the old man has died."

I knock on the door and came a no answer.

That poor old man...he must have had cancer.

It feels Ironic so do I...

Everytime I feel.

Everytime I cry.

 


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