Poetry from a Bathroom Stall

Poetry from a Bathroom Stall

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WpMetadataNoticeÚltima atualização qua, abr 15, 2015
Some call me a dreamer; others name me freak. No matter whom I turn to, I am told that I am weak. This Journey I embarked on was not by choice, For if it was I would choose to have a voice. Shame, despair, regret, all pain. This battle that I fight seems to be in vain. Pay no attention to the girl with weary eyes. Her worth is valued lies.
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Thursday

The depths of my mind and dialogue of it all. My thoughts. My fakeness. My lies. My confessions. My Raw mental conversations. My weakness. My complicated life. The nonsense that creeps up in my head when I'm thinking. There is no need to understand. There is no need to feel pity. This is Thursday.

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