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Roses are red,
violets are blue.
This is a sad poem,
I wrote just for you.

You use your razors,
maybe a knife.
It’s only the beginning,
of this suicidal fight.

You cover your cuts,
with bracelets and sleeves.
But you never see it coming,
when your fresh cuts still bleed.

Your becoming sloppy,
the cracks begin to show.
You think nobody will care,
when all your sanity goes.

The demons inside,
they prowl in your head.
You never even realized,
you were already dead.

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