Is It Poetry
They don't all set out to die,
they just do.
Words we can all see on the page.
In the first person,
the second and you in the third.
Come here to me hear me out.
Talking birds, like that mirror.
I am never lonely.
As I hang over there from the wall.
It is there, no where else,
from the edge that I call.
Her name makes it hard to go on.
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