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It's the little things that crack me down
A bullet may only pierce the skin
But living as a disowned miscreation,
These bullets are made to kill
And if I happen to get away with mere cuts and scrapes,
Those leave the most grueling scars
Countless tears become a norm
Forcing me behind these invisible bars
Everyday hoping somebody hears
Making more of those dead excuses
It's meaningless I fear.
Continueing to excape
However if I try to avoid
It leaves me with a void.
Barren wasteland becomes of my life
Unwanted in all places
So I seek for the desolation to comfort myself
Unfortunately, this too makes me decay
But being accepted isn't what I want either.
They say I am as weak as fictin,
As they proceed happily with their deceit
They may slay me if they wish
Charging at me for being everything I am
Annihilation of my existance
This is what they want
But I will try and resist
Even if all they do is hiss.
Hiding again.
From all those little cuts and scrapes-
Left me in mutilation
Trying to fix the wreckage
Living in this fable of mine
Longing for my final chapter
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Submitted on March 26, 2016

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    "Werewolf" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2022. Web. 25 Jan. 2022. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/90572/werewolf>.

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