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Wednesday, June 1, 2005


   My play ground...
It has swings made of hooks...
Full of these evil books...
The monster under my bed is now my best friend...
He will stay with me till the end...
So why is it that these cuts are real...?
I do not feel...
We all kill...
And have taken a pill...
So why is it that I am not real?
We cast our self out…
But we just play about…
Now we see this pain oh so sweet…
But we tremble, and fall to our feet…
So why do we need this pill…
It won’t give me a will…
This play ground full of pain…
It now has no chain…
It is no longer part of this world…
So I say my good byes though this one last message…
And hope some one will get it…

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