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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#466581voted by our readers
By Anonymous
Hands My hands are dry. Cracks all over my knuckles are clearly visible. And on the coldest of mornings, Small amounts of blood find its way through. And then I see her, and...
Hands My hands are dry. Cracks all over my knuckles are clearly visible. And on the coldest of mornings, Small amounts of blood find its way through. And then I see her, and...