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This loss, of all the words I know
As the wind spreads these ashes of an authors mind
there is no stench as bad...as a burning book
knowing pages no longer wait for me to look
As if a friend decided to go
leaving nothing of themselves for me to find
these accumulated soulprints of writters dead
I have only small snippets of what they said
Why couldnt they burn the Post Office instead
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Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned. - Buddha
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