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Mass Production by ~santy:iconsanty:



These broken things
on my back
Don’t make good wings;
Just a heart attack.
Sorting through scrap metal
and tying knots –
Hooking up wires
and watching them rot.
One after the other,
All in a line,
Calling them something;
Calling them mine.
Only to see them break –
These carbon copied fakes
Falling like confetti
from the sky.
It’s a lacklustre funeral,
seeing them die.
And a shock
to the system
When they realize
they can’t fly.
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:iconsanty:

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:iconnakatsuki:
ohh, I really like it, it's one of the first times that I've saw you use a rhyme scheme in poetry - and it works really well !

--
You know, I'm not half as exciting in person as I am when my identity is an icon.
:iconsanty:
Thank you! I'm glad it got your stamp of approval. Admittedly rhyme scheme and I don't usually work well, so that is a relief.

--
"FINE. The idiot with the blood fetish can stay under ONE condition!"
"And that would be...?"
"No more eating the friggin' neighbors!"
----
Memeber of the zodiac club and UnseenArtists

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July 11, 2008
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