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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 20:00:39 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 119600
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Traffic Jam
[time] => 2006-05-06 17:29:17
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => What a sick cycle, right upside my head like the butt of a rifle And I struggle to get a grip or catch a break But its really just complaining, thank God that its not raining Because that would really be great It isn't so confusing, I'm just sick of losing Like all the pieces of my brain are rusted I want to be intriguing, instead I turn out deceiving Like my composure itself is busted I try to jump and catch a lump in the bottom of my throat Someone holds it over my head Maybe they will drop or their head will pop Right around to change green to red [comments] => 0 [counter] => 168 [topic] => 13 [informant] => Exodus [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 3 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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