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Poetry
Top voted Poetry
#468501voted by our readers
By Anonymous
I sit in the back, I always do. I clutch the seatbelt that smells of plastic. I hear the voices that speak of nothing. The old routine. I look out the window that pass my town,...
I sit in the back, I always do. I clutch the seatbelt that smells of plastic. I hear the voices that speak of nothing. The old routine. I look out the window that pass my town,...
