Journal: Suffer the Harlem

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He stands behind the tree, hating
She sits on the park bench, waiting
He takes out his switchblade, smiling
Strangers grab their cell phones, dialing
He steps out into the light
She looks up at him in fright
Eyes pleading
Sweat beading
The mother dying
Her baby crying
There was so much blood and more
That came out of that innocent looking whore

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