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CUT
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dark/grey area poems There he sits,
With blade in hand,
Blood pouring silently,
From his wrists to the land.
Life was too painful,
Or so he said,
In his final scrawl,
Before he bled.
A lonly life,
In which nobody cared,
So he finally did that,
Which so many had dared,
So now his pain drains away,
Along with his life,
From two simple cuts,
Made with a knife.
