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suicide poetry

flores dos bebês
paredes e enorme elevados
há uma hora do descanso calmo
você ouve a chuva?
ainda treze anos
eu despise meus amigos mais do que você
e pão do breaketh mais
ame-me no último, ou se você não
eu sou o vento que wavers
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
doce e forte
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate

 



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