Dark Poems

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Roses are red, and so is blood. . .

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1. 1.


 

They ask us why we cut.

They ask us why we waste our blood.

They call us names, laugh in our face.

They don't know that we're taking life,

At our own pace.

They ask us why we bother.

They ask us why not just die.

They don't know that we're waiting,

That we trust fate won't lie.

They ask us what we have.

They ask us why we try.

They don't know we're waiting,

For an angel to help us fly.

 

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