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Question: 4th poem, fresh from the kiln that is my mind
unfortunate, 5618

bloodstained fingertips
reality is slipping from my grips!.
laughing maniacally at the mirror
we all know the meaning of fear!.
smoke filled glossy eyes,
see through the fog & understand their lies!.
a basket case fallen from grace,
hold back those tears fallen from your face!.Www@QuestionHome@Com


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