bleed

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  • Angst

    bleed

    the leech that is life is on a never ending mission to suck me dry of my ambition..as time silently drags on,it slowly ,methodically,almost lovingly,peels the skin from my back..day by day i trudge through the haze that is my perceptions,inside i am screaming..my outer shell shows a calm that does not exsist in the storm of emotions that constantly wales and scrapes at my soul..running from my veins as i run from the truth of my being...while others live and laugh,i bleed.....

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    Poetry is not the expression of personality but an escape from personality.

    T. S. Eliot (1888-1965) American-English poet and playwright.

    Mccauley’s Poems (1)

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    Mccauley’s Friends (1)