with these scattered words like wounded birds after tornadic storms

something dead in me that doesn’t want to die and I don’t know do I want it dead or not or do I want it there just dying all the time as one long dying cry might be my style, a way to exhale always waiting for a next and better breath to refulfill me

Published in: on April 25, 2011 at 10:09 am  Leave a Comment  

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