depression (Remove filter)
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Full rounded heart,
Eyes that are sore with weeping,
Dark like and arrow piercing,
And ever the hand is writing.
You draw yourself, so many new lines.
Role after role you sketch, and toss away.
Mind that is ever writing
My own hard epitaphs,
Blaming my eyes for weeping
Over dusty photographs.
The past is a well told tragedy
And you a...
Monday 13th May 2013 12:08 pm
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