a horrid salty taste attacks my mouth, burns my throat, here i sit, all alone, my hand tightens on my glass, damage done, i wait, swallow breathing mixed with self hate, waiting, in silence, but nothing new happens, i'm left feeling empty but full, my mind is clouded with thoughts of all the days words, my stomack with a very little amount of food. 

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Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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