My love is a burden.

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My love is a burden.

My love is a burden,

You hold it in your hands.

But it’s falling through the cracks.

What once was unbreakable,

Has now got holes,

Each one growing through time.

As they get bigger,

Emotions travel out.

Leaving nothing behind.

My love is a burden,

You couldn’t be trusted to hold it,

There is nothing but holes,

Now punched into this delicate emotion. 

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Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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ohcrapitskylie’s Poems (3)

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