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Six, Seven


by Darryl Price


Nobody gets anybody back. All 
this time they're telling you believe in something 
better than the one you obviously 
loved. I didn't know you were lying 

for them. I knew they were heartless. That was 
the real obvious. We were in love. I 
could feel its simple truth in me no matter 
where I was standing. Now it's over. 

All that time they're telling you bad things in 
your ear that turn down your flame to sad and 
very unhappy. We were friends. I knew 
I would always be around for you anytime. 

I needed you to believe. Nobody 
gets a chance to explain anything. 
They polluted your joy with slightly 
altered stories with dull plots. They betrayed 

your newfound joy with jealousy and eyes 
to make themselves feel superior. Now 
see how they take your scarce energy resources 
with cowardly impunity 

because you lack the love that was yours to 
love. Nobody gets anybody back. 
At least I haven't seen it done. We were 
beautiful fools for each other. I didn't care. 

I wanted you to feel especially 
giddy, not burned with pride. Just genuinely 
glad. But nobody gets anybody
back again. People with sour 

faces hated the prettiness of your 
glowing countenance whenever we appeared 
holding hands. Now they say don't write such
sugary crap because nobody cares. 

Be a real man. Write about Death and War. 
I am I say. But your sorrow is still 
too boring for us. Give us some gritty 
action and adventure reels. Throw in some 

sexy sentences. Bomb us! Your souls are
too buried, I say. Nobody gets anybody 
back. Is that enough torture?
This poem is all I have left to give.
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