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A Backhanded Love Song

It's never the memories,
It's that hoarde of feelings
Leaves me empty of tears now,
Until my eyes are like stones,
And my heart a fist pulped in its beating,
And all my hard-headed sense
Nothing but sharp, broken pieces.

So understand, my love,
The thought of you means nothing -
The passion is mine. Alone.

poem by (24 January 2009, London)Report problemRelated quotes
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