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I Write Poetry

The man screaming in the mirror,
Cannot face what he's become,
The words meant but to kiss,
Now cut like razors on his tongue,
An evil cherub with poison arrows,
Whose wicked motives are arcane,
So sits this man his last victim,
As his tears fall like the rain,
His mind a cage of chaos,
His soul a tattered mess,
His spirit once aflame with desire,
Now smoldering ember in his chest,
Nowhere to run from his memories,
He is forgetting how to feel,
Between his dream and nightmares,
He questions what is real,
Alone in his hell he quietly sits,
Counting his scars and pain,
Begging for mercy from the stars,
Yet his cries are all in vain,
Acursed with undead love,
His broken heart its eternal tomb,
A seed that's unable grow,
A flower that can't wither nor bloom,
SagePoet · 61-69, M
tough subject, great verse

 
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