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Those pages full of pencilled left in dirt.
Hours chained by sick love that makes me hurt.
It beacons to me whenever I look.
And I obey; reeled in by its hook.

Each pencil line rubbed off dirty dark lead.
Onto paper from my eyes see just red.
Wasted life on this gold mine of splendour.
To loose it would make me feel so tender.

I hate. My love. Seen by many.
Those pictures inside not cured by any.
My creations that have had me crying.
My creations that leave me there dying.
©2006-2009 ~abbebe
:iconabbebe:

Author's Comments

This was for 's challenge #17 [link]

The theme: ''Write about an object that you value in a negative way''

So i wrote about mon sketchbook :)

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:iconabbebe:
lol

--
[Lust]
If this is a sin then may I burn!
I can't help it my dear, for you I yearn!
Groan; scream; lips; movement; thrust; smooth; oh!
[He did tease her till she could not say no]
Love under sexual tension

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July 31, 2006
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