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Poem
January 5, 2009
Poetry, poetry...
Has a language of its own.
Unchangeable. Set in stone
Rhythm, rhythm...
Carves the delicate song
Steady and strong
Words, words...
Etching pictures in your mind
Without them, you are blind
I reach out to touch them
Hold them and love them
Broken
I broke it
Fingers bled
As I pick up the many shards
Stupid me.
© Anonymous
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