Is It Poetry
Bad sex it only was unable to walk away
I have scrawled
as I crawled across enemy lines, I call.
Isolated self identified
by virtue of discretion absolved from my pain.
Alpha, Yankee, Bravo forget the target,
here I've no friends.
Revenue the winding stream of black ops,
blue and white colours run away red through the sand from.
Do not help me you are next stretched out
thereupon I have prayed.
Opened up years passed by into a room
where I lost what I could not give away.
Therapeutic bad sex written out
from the rear in the sand on my stomach
I watch as the enemy comes.
How much more can you grow from the suffering I endured.
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