Poem 12
write till you bleed your hands dry
the ink turns to ash, leaves you to wondering why
your story's on pages, no, I've not written any of them
you manage your own shit, play your own system
still I'm attached to your meaningless affair
book threats don't do well, so what will stares?
just not one love, a million lies
try to hard, you don't wanna tire your eyes
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