| You never can get used to the smell of burn victims, Or the sight of a dead
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| child,
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| So repulsed yet I can’t look away, heads separated, exhumed from twisted wrecks
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| Sifting through the debris, identifying the bodies, pronounced dead.
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| Adrenaline rush when screams and cries collide in such perfect harmony,
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| Crosses on the roadside symbolize the shattered memories, I often envision
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| The broken bodies on collision.
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| The overwhelming pain, their final words, thoughts of loved ones watching
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| Them fall dead… satisfies the morbid curiosities
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| Stimulating the crazed imagination. |
| Exhilaration, inhaling the stench of Incinerated flesh, gut wrenching reality, the goriest of all homicides.
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| Thirst the blood of suicide, revisiting the crimes sights of nauseating
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| Death scenes. |
| Their brutalized, inanimate images in the morgue fascinate.
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| Witnessing appalling autopsies, victims of catastrophes crippled and
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| Paralyzed, facial lacerations, pieces of the amputated. |
| Anxious for more
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| When they bleed so viciously I crave for this world of violence. |
| When the
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| Shrieking intensifies in agonizing surgeries.
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| Life so sacred, yet defouled with such carelessness my mind bleeds
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| Tragedies. |