You're talking in my sleep
I'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
Read 613 times
Written on 2007-08-19 at 23:36

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