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An Orchestra
I hate music
She yells. He yells louder.
That is the music
Which seeps through my walls.
Doors slam,
A car starts.
The blade dances
Over porcelain skin
At six in the morning,
Three in the afternoon,
Ten at night
My music plays loud.
His fist makes contact,
She yelps in pain.
The blade dances
Over porcelain skin
In a red river of tears.
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also, thank you for checking out my stuff too, i acually put up alot better stuff but it hasn't been acceptted yet :/
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I don't need a friend who changes when I change and who nods when I nod; my shadow does that much better.<br /> When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children; even if we love them, they show us the state of our decay.