Loophole
You're talking in my sleepI'm clinging to a steep
the miserable moon's my only light
I ran for days but it's still night
Hate me now but tend the grass on my grave
food for worms is nothing to save
Experiences feels like surreal fiction
liquor's a slope without friction
starting to lose my presence of heart
hitchin' a ride with the reapers cart
Poetry by Dead Mans hand
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Written on 2007-08-19 at 23:36
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