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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 13:29:21 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 3546
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Memoirs of A Child
[time] => 2002-09-08 12:17:26
[hometext] => Don't worry the retard is dead...
[bodytext] => Don't be ashamed of me for who I am.
Don't push me away for who I might be. I know I am different, but you are my sister. I hurt because of you, don't you see? You make fun of me with your friends at school. You pick on me, and call me names. I run to my class of what you call retards, and cry about your wicked games. I only wanted you to be there for me. I wanted you to love me in a sisterly way. But today is the finale, no more fear. It all ends, right here, today. They walked in and I was on the floor. One hand on the knife, the other on you. The cops pointed their guns at me and yelled, like they knew just what to do. So, here I am, the retard with the knife. I knew exactly what they hand on their mind. I knew of these people, these sheep of the city. I knew how to deal with their kind. I lift up the knife toward my throat, and not a word was said. The knife cut deep, and the last thing I recall, "Don't worry, the retard is dead." [comments] => 3 [counter] => 230 [topic] => 39 [informant] => Jazz [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 10 [ratings] => 2 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Grief )
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