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It Is Nothing.

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The movies often start like this,
They leave their bodies arranged,
Like innocent flies killed,
All squashed and hurt to suffocate.

The mystery leads to an ending,
That will send every poor soul to forget,
About all the clues that were given,
About all the poor antonyms.

As the romance blooms in the scenery,
Behind those screens are lies,
That would always bring you to the edge of your innocent mind,
Now you can't hear your own mind screaming, "Retreat, Retreat!"

The film rolls like a cannon,
Bringing sorrow, pain, and laughter.
Some triumph mixed in, too,
And maybe some admiration towards one of the adolescent actors.

The ending, coming soon,
Will disappoint your manners,
Because it turns out that this film,
Was your life wrapped in two and a half hours.





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