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Poetry

02 Jun Dumpster

Dumpster By: Trey DuPont They left her in my hands Left there to rot like trash Her fate had been sealed With clenched fists and bitter rage

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26 May Shh!

She sleeps curled up a tiny crescent against the head board of her bed face tucked her frame exists more in memory rumpled like spare blankets

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22 May The Living Slavemasters

Tragic, happy, death, life, existence: None of these revolve ’round sticks of incense Yet every breath taken into ourselves does Not show empirical evidence of our self-prominence For it is coated in sweet-smelling fragrance The lies Oh but it is to see, to laugh, merely…

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