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A Prison Filled With Smoke

 I drew with a pencil that broke in the middle I drew with the shorter half that choked on the riddle I knew it was going to be harder to hide my fiddle I drew on top of a scar that had been ripped open too far I drew the stitches to cover the leakage in rage I made the lead to break I drew dark glasses to hide my eyes from lies that cover my face I drew empty classes where I teach freedom I knew no one would come and take the risk that it encompasses I drew the bucket  that has holes everywhere I drew the station that never sees a train only the pain of everything passing right through the empty tracks I drew a relation that is always in tension what should I say how should I pay what should I do not to stay I drew a blanket to cover my soul I drew a bullet to destroy the ghoul I knew someone will call me out I knew someone will shout I drew a chair where I can sit and think about being fair I drew a floor filled with gravity of good time smoke gathered around me suddenly, I ...

There Is More


Behind a shut door,
Inside an empty store,
Between the pieces tore,
Beyond the pompous shore,
There is more.
Underneath the laughing roar,
Tripped out a hidden tear.
Filling up an outrageous air,
Climbing down the rusty stair.
There is more.
A heart gone sore,
Or A soul driven tour,
Eyes turned sour,
Or A ripped off core.
But still there is more.
Never left before,
Walked out the door,
Tears touched the floor,
Standing there ignore,
Memories riving galore,
Yet there will be more.

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