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Dead poet

I’m a dead poet and didn’t even know it,
Proof is in my works to show it, 
Rusty, used and old, 
Much like I feel, bitter and cold,
Please don’t look into my words too deeply, 
You just might see, looking back at you is me, 
Something you take personally, 
May breach your confidentiality,
  And hit you where it hurts, 
Just like an old woman with bricks in her purse,
Trying to protect her last inch of decency, 
As she falls on her face and screams “help please!” 
But there’s no one there to here cries as her motionless body just sets there and lies.
Wishing there she was not alone, thinking wondering why she comes back to an empty home.
Realizing the day she died was the day you left,
And how time came and left like instant theft, 
Within it she lost her true identity, of who she was or could be.
Dead poet i am on the inside, 
Without anything left to hide,
 To hollow to force my hand to write something sweet, for with that a bitter cavity I’ll meet.

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