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Plathpainted in a pretty bloody green with lots of words & hurt written in the clouds feeling like sylvia fucking plath can't do much except write & write and hope that my life will mean something in the long run ride on & write on to tell me that my personality traits don't mean shit that my love sickness & pain don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world & wishing for ilsa's predicament i sit & watch as the black & white screen turns my life to shit as well my chatter makes no sense and while the cornflake girl blares on the boom box screaming of the world stopping and of homes on the range my purple rain pours on and thinking like sylvia fucking plath i'm beginning to see that my life could be just as short-lived as hers... |
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