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What I Own
I'm not a person.
No, I am merely that shadow that you so often see,
Flickering in the corner of your eye.
I have no voice,
But the sound the winds make as they howl through the trees,
Flowing in the gale.
I have no sight,
For I do not see as the rest of the world does,
Because the sky is red with blood.
I have no conscience.
I've failed too many times to dwell on life, and have come to see,
The past is past.
I have no sense,
For I also know that we are made of what has past,
Of every time we ruin.
I have no future.
I will be dead by the time I grow, if not in body
Than in the wreckage of my soul.
I have no place.
Society runs from the pain that I bring,
The pain of truth.
I'm not a person,
Because I'm not meant to exist. I am meant
To be slain.
And I will be slain.
Of anything, it is this I can be sure.
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