The day was a whore,
Shouting, scratching.
Clawing old wounds,
Spreading an ecstatic poison inside.
A disease that cannot be corrected,
A plague that makes me stronger.
This entry was posted
on Friday, September 25, 2009
at Friday, September 25, 2009
and is filed under
Contamination,
Innocence,
Pain,
Poverty
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