People die.
And are easily forgotten.
And go to the self-conscious of our dirty minds.
Guilt...truth...pain...pleasure...
Destroying our sick lives.
They don't love you... they don't ask you.
But they burry you and forget you.
They don't count you in, they torture.
And after words they say:
"Those are the wrongfully lost.".
Young ones not talking, not asking again:
"When is the next funeral?".
Friends who leave and never come back.
To the same neighborhood.
Sons who die.
Daughters who sigh.
And grow up in a new body.
In a new soul.
And the story begins again.















Devious Comments
Comments
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Love may be like demons poetry, or maybe god loves complex irony.
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Good artists copy. Great artists steal! Quote: Picasso
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