he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that—
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.

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Dina Haines
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I didn't get exactly the thoughts you have implied through this poem. But I could understand some reality here. Thank you for posting. custom essay writing service

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