Running Out of Time

September 2, 2008
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These hands are growing old,
They're running out of time.
My skin gets cold
Without my sense of rhyme.

Wrinkles grow to my forehead,
A hunch grows in my back.
I lay here in my bed
And think of what it is I lack.

My words aren't accepted.
What is it that I need?
None will be excepted,
Give me ideas to feed.

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