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by Jon Beherends
I see the world with smudged glasses. I see hurt and hate.
I see myself, I don't like the reflection.
I don't have the lens cleaner... where did I drop it?
Did I drop it when I was seven or when I was eight?
Lost forgotten are my days of clear vision.
Now the sight is tainted, the specs of death slowly killing.
I feel closer to my death every sin, every minute I take the poison.
(c) 2001 The Breaking Room