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| I wrote this poem at P.E.P. in the 8th grade. |
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All there is. It is today. Folded, burned, and broken Lying on the floor by my toy airplane. There it is, It just sits there, Flying in its mind, Wishing it had a mind. So it could fly in its mind Now till tomorrow When it dies If it could, never living, Cause it's paper on the floor. But if there's nothing else except tomorrow, Tomorrow for life to suck And the day after that and after that And keep going. Suicide? But no, That would suck too, Like everything else. A stupid paper, A stupid rhyme, All there is. |
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