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The End?
March 8, 2019
Selling dope—life’s joke. Feening coke while going broke, I smell of gunsmoke.
Jail on mind, on grind. While I’m not that kind, I’m confined.
Cops ring door. I lay on the floor. Cell decor in jail—till I’m hoar.
© Ashley W., Port Charlotte, FL
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A korean poem called a sijo