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A
poem is never finished, only abandoned. ~Paul Val�ry
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She Is Like This
She carries it around with her, like a toy in her pocket, to bring out and play with whenever she is bored. She carries it tied to her heart, to reach out and pinch whenever she needs to feel. She wraps it around her like a warm blanket, to keep her happy when she feels neglected. She brandishes it like a sword, to gather attention from others when she is feeling lonely. And when she is feeling tired, she blames it on others to make her seem the bigger person. And when she has nothing better to do, she brings it out to play with, to pass around the living and aware. Then she puts it back in her pocket, when it has completed it's purpose. She wishes it upon people, as though it is a pleasant thing. It is an omen, for when you see her, you know it's not that far behind. She is the magnet to which it cannot deny. She is the beacon to which it finds itself drawn to, for she is the lighthouse of it's darkest heart. And like a child, she carries it all within her pocket, to play with when she is feeling unloved. Dare not pity her, for it is of her own doing. Dare not blame others, for they are not in the wrong. Others run for cover, when she is near, for we all know that it will not be long in coming. Beware the child with a pocket of marbles, for it is naught but a game.
raw || truth |