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Monday, May 16, 2005


POETRY
For our pain, we find a kind of release, a slice at the wrist can easily cease.... the current pain in your heat, self mutilation, a timeless art. And some release in page after page, their hearts greatest desires, the means of their rage. And some are not of human thought, daring to dream things that they ought not. But i myself admire those who shut themselves up in poetry and prose.
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