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I feel as if my heart is braking.
My last breath out there for the taking.
I feel the cold cluch of death grips.
As I hold the knife to my throat my hand slips.
So cold am I dead.
Did they lay a tomb stone at my head.
Did they dig my grave six feet deep.
And throw cold lifless roses at my feet.
Are the maggots wiggling their way into my skin.
Am I forsaken for my moratal sin.
Forgiving into temptation and endind my own life.
I remember the beauty of the glising knife.
Sharppened in all its glory.
The knife that writes the unwritten story.
Its conclusion is it set me free.
I guess I am dead and that’s not such a tragedy.