A Ture Poem About My Mother
She looks up and down her arm,
All cut up and blooded,
Each time she looks at the cut's,
She see what's (Used to be)
and wishes she was dead,
As she touches and looks at each scar,
She memebers how sad she was,
And that near each meant something of her horrblie past...
Copyright © Kristina Gilpin | Year Posted 2008
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