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Mom Go Fetch Some Butter Or Perhaps Some Margine For I'Ve Gotten Something Stuck

With every cut,
the sense of what's right slowly goes away.
With every dropp of blood,
you fade away.
Every time you're touched,
trust flies away.
With every i love you unspoken,
a piece of your heart is broken.
with every argument,
respect is lost.

with every last breakdown,
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Maureen Desmond 22 June 2010

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