The Poetic Grim Reaper
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"The truth" . . . : (
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When poetic lines are no more, than sharpened knives
Where the words splice into, as destroying others lives
Wrists cut; and then left to bleed, within a bloody bath
But, where words still rhyme on having their last laugh
He falls asleep never to awake, a bottle of pills in hand
This poetic grim reaper hums a lullaby, he understands
He is feeding off your lack of self worth, it's his payday
Collecting the dollars; with every poor soul he can slay
Your weakness has never been his problem, only yours
Self esteem needed here, it is the only thing that cures
Avoid, poetic snake like words, entering into your head
Next he'll be sleeping besides you, whilst you lie in bed
When morning comes you will find that all hope is gone
And to the reality, some one else took your life to pawn
And that he did this by luring you with his poetic words
A innocent mind is not a blessing, but, a learning curve
When one learns to do onto others as they do onto you
Surviving writing poetic words such as I have had to do
Copyright © Indiana Shaw | Year Posted 2022
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