by archer
Year: 
2016

the sick images of my mind
have twisted my perception of reality.
perhaps i will never wed, never sleep.
become a being of dusty pages 
and tired sighs,
feeble like a withered tree.
perhaps i will forget beauty.
see suicide
in subway stations
and broken childhood
in a pair of safety scissors. 
perhaps, if i let them win.
but i have always been stubborn. 

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