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The Shakes
Dan.
14 Jun 2005
Awfully cold
this summer eve,
With only echoes
on the wind
Drying all
I've tried to hold
back inside, far
and away from
the light of day.
On this wind,
my thoughts are
not my own,
but, again, echoes
of those who I
fear. I hate that
fear as it is,
again, an echo,
a memory of
something someone
forgotten, and
that is what kills
me.
What does me in,
what really does it,
is this self-loathing,
writing creating
these thoughts and words
that no one will
see, no one save
you. If I did
not wake up,
for some reason, I'd
be satisified
dreaming talking
to that stranger,
my dreammate. At
least for a while.
I hate this as
much as I hate
you as much as
I hate me.
Sorry.
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