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POEMS

Siren trash

The voice that haunts us like a siren
she calls us all
Her howls melt away the ice in our hearts
to let our feelings flow like water
If my mother was dead she would sound as beautiful to me as this
Holy is the cold and disfigured serenity that motivates us to hold ourselves in self-pity
and plunge into the cold depths of emptiness and victimhood
Her distorted voice sings me a narrative to drown myself in
If there is no love out there
I'm not ready
The convictions I hold as cold weights tied to my ankles
haven't dragged me down deep enough
I'll call you when I'm ready
I'm not done brooding

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