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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 20:16:10 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 70670
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Graveyard
[time] => 2004-11-08 18:05:00
[hometext] => It does have to do with the past.
[bodytext] => No masichist's fantasy, could compare to the pain I put myself through. Memories are like waking the dead, things long buried should be long forgotten, the dead hurt too much. Skeltons in the closet, reach out for me in the morning, the afternoon and the night, and never let go. Living like I'm dieing, there's no shame in that. When I'm gone I could spend time. Time with my memories and those faint whispers, the ones that've been with me all along. I read words, and hear a voice speaking them. I'm not losing my mind, I can't, I won't fall into Poe like tragedy, not for this. Not for shadows, not for all the doubt in the world. I need a shovel. I need to dig. I need to feel the earth move beneath my feet. I need to dig and never stop. Six feet is just not enough. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 191 [topic] => 44 [informant] => CodyJ [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 0 [associated] => [topicname] => Nostalgic )
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