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A poem ... take it how you will.

Use it, take it but please



Learn from it.

 

 

This house it a prison,

These walls are a cell,

This bed is a coffin,

Soon doomed for hell.

 

The doors are locked,

The windows are barred,

Just to keep in,

Those who are scarred.

 

The floor is a swamp,

These bracelets are chains,

The house keeps rocking,

From the passing of trains.

 

My palms are wet,

My nerves are shot,

The colour of fear,

Bears emotion white hot.

 

My hair is lank,

My clothes full of seams,

The floor is a'scattered,

With sad paper dreams.

 

This house isn't empty,

The ghosts in the bed,

Lie there no longer,

They're locked in the sheds.

 

The other ones cry,

The other ones pout,

A once polished girl,

Has lost her red pout.

 

Hearts are mended,

Hearts are broke,

But for this one heart,

He has already spoke.

 

He keeps me a prisoner,

He keeps me alone,

Trussed up tightly,

In need of a phone.

 

But who do I call?

Confess all these sins?

Do I bury my secrets?

Deep and within.

The End

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