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She was simple. Like a poem, and always dressed in sunshine.

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Herself Poem Simplicity Sunshine

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Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.
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She was an artist on top of me, and soaked my sheets with poetry.
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I’m wrong but I’m real.
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This heart. It’s broke. I don’t want it anymore.
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With her, the world becomes art.
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Late nights. Poetry. Cigarettes. and a wounded heart, trying to forget you.
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