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A sticky piece of paper.
A river of ink,
Staining a pure white background.
The ink slowly
Seeps onto his skin
And will not fade
No matter how hard he scrubs.

A life of running,
From a permanent mark.
Empty eyes stare back
From the mirror.
So desperate to leave
The past behind
That he is willing to destroy
Everything.

He tries so hard to leave,
To get away from his roots,
Refusing to accept
The invisible threads
That hold him together
Struggling past obstacles
And yet, every time,
He ends up back
Here
In this place
Where he started
With black ink on his hands.





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