Saturday, January 14, 2012

Poor Me

You believe the poison to be delicate,
Structured and ready to strike.
It was planning the deceit
And training for the fight.
Once willing to kill any remnants of hope,
It planted it's territory and went back to its hole.
Thrash the one to acknowledge the pain,
They can't speak anyways with ducktape on their face.
Cast out the one with clean intentions,
It'll be easier to let them absorb and for you to ignore.

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