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  • The Shakes
    14 Jun 2005

    Awfully cold
    this summer eve,
    With only echoes
    on the wind
    Drying all
    I've tried to hold
    back inside, far
    and away from
    the light of day.

    On this wind,
    my thoughts are
    not my own,
    but, again, echoes
    of those who I
    fear. I hate that
    fear as it is,
    again, an echo,
    a memory of
    something someone
    forgotten, and
    that is what kills

    What does me in,
    what really does it,
    is this self-loathing,
    writing creating
    these thoughts and words
    that no one will
    see, no one save
    you. If I did
    not wake up,
    for some reason, I'd
    be satisified
    dreaming talking
    to that stranger,
    my dreammate. At
    least for a while.
    I hate this as
    much as I hate
    you as much as
    I hate me.