Someone turned the voices off in my head.
Now I'll never know what happened to that boy in the woods,
whose screams I heard while I lay in bed.
Or the woman with the homicidal maniac living in her home.
She had asked for help,
I remember,
sometime during August and November.
And what about the toy soldier
who hadn't quite finished dying?
Last I heard,
three days ago,
he lay on his bedside crying.
I am only left to wonder
about what happens next.
Maybe I'll pick up a pencil
and write it down in text.
Poetry isn't my strong point. Any feedback would be great.
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