"When we can no longer dream, we die" -Emma Goldman

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

something in your heart goes cold
your chest becomes open, bare, sterile.
long beeps are heard over soft whispers of
your eyes become broken lamps
that flicker a once-wonderful message
of hope, happiness, love.
there are few things that make your hand twitch
little white lines marring your flesh
there are few things that make your stomach itch
release with simultaneous withdrawal
and some clean bandages to wrap it all up

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