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| I wrote this poem at P.E.P. in the 8th grade. P.E.P. was on Tuesdays, and that's why it is the name of this poem. I know it's not very creative, but it was hard to give a name to a poem like this. |
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Lost the brain In the wheel On the floor, Covered with mud In the kitchen, Covered with mud and blood. Why? That's the way they like it, For the neighbors, For the friends, It doesn't matter at all, In the end, In the end everything's grey, Grey to dark, No one can see, No one can breathe, It's in the way, It's almost dead, It is all nonsense, All you've read. It makes sense to someone on the 4th of July where it's illegal. It's all garbage, Just garbage, Nothing but garbage, Not poetry, Garbage. Run-ons, fragments, and poor punctuation, That's all I'll ever hear. |
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