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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#434671voted by our readers
By Anonymous
Today. I walk into my house, My mother turns to me, her face is disheveled. Black tears run down each crevice, of her beautiful face. Her hair, is not brushed. Her clothes,...
Today. I walk into my house, My mother turns to me, her face is disheveled. Black tears run down each crevice, of her beautiful face. Her hair, is not brushed. Her clothes,...