literature

94. Hurt

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Literature Text

He sits there, on my doorstep
I always see him through my window
A forlorn smile curves his lips, wrapped in torn cloth and broken skin
And leave, he never will, he cannot
He never allows you to forget the past
He sits there, silence perched on his shoulders
His empty eyes see you in its depths, ghastly staring through their sockets
And leave, he won't ever, he cannot
I chained him there, frozen on that doorstep, shut outside, but always seen
another thing with 100 themes. ... dunno how much I like the flow in this, but oh well.
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