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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 20:48:22 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 70802
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Home
[time] => 2004-11-09 14:31:56
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => This town It doesn't feel much Your head Bounced as is, such It's wicked The way it always turns around So disastrous The way you never hear a sound Wretched is the whirlwind Tainted pieces begin to fly A tempest of disaster But, it's a glorious way to die The chair Picked up like a needle from the stack Tossed up into blissfulness Crash through the sky, bend and crack Shattered pieces Tossed against the floor Pick them up Right as you stepped through the door And step away Move right back through Reverse the emptiness The emptiness that has replaced you For this town doesn't feel much And not that it should Your chance was thrown to pieces We all knew you would [comments] => 2 [counter] => 178 [topic] => 13 [informant] => ExodusOnWeezer [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 2 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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