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Murder a Friend
The blade felt cold between my fingertips.
 On my smooth sleek legs, there’s a chilly breeze,
 These jeans are covered with crazy huge rips.
 I sprint past people and guards with great ease,
 My feet—barely touching the ground—silent.
 Across my face goes streams of light,
 Searching for me are police and sirens.
 A part of my mind knows this isn’t right.
 Who’s controlling my brain, I do not know,
 For I would never murder my best friend.
 I scream his name as I start to slow,
 He trusted me until the very end.
 You don’t have to do this, his sad eyes plead,
 But my master is the one I must heed.

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