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WarA dying man can scream only once,
so better lift that dying head of yours and scream your last dying breath,
Better not to waste it.
Think your last thoughts now, my child,
for you may never have another chance...
A young child sits in the ruble
Its little arms wagging in despair
His face is wet from the slob, a mixture of snot, and tears (and dust from the fallen buildings,)
contorting his skrunched up face which cries for its mother.
But his wails are the pleas pleaded unto the deaf man
and his gestures unto the blind man.
The noise of blood-soaked feet patter around him;
they run from the slayers and their dooms-day devices
but what they are running towards, I cannot say; it is certainly not hope.
The bodies attached to the feet are wounded and helpless,
their heads are in a mangled panic
Their human nature knows of nothing else but to result to an inscinct so old,
it knows no time.
and so they scream for mercy.
Knowing nothing else to do,
the tiny child continues to wail.
A HeartBrake PoemA HeartBrake Poem
I threw away a little piece of my heart today.
A little piece shaped like the horse pin you gave me for Christmas.
Or was it my birthday? I don't remember.
It was shaped like the horse pin you gave me, but you said it was
But I could tell the handwriting was yours.
It was shaped like the horse pin you gave me; It's beautiful graceful neck, slick and silver,
The profile view.
Its head was held up high by the two swinging chains,
Swing-swosh, swing-swosh, It would sing when I wore it Swing-swosh, swing-swosh
He took out the glue and he glued it back to gether.
I wanted to yell out: You Basterd!
You can't glue back a broken heart!
It's a piece of fine jewelry you Basterd!
You take it to the jeweler and he'll fix it.
You basterd...you can't glue back a broken
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