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Stacks of Books of Poetry
Now I have to learn to write
poetry about the positives
and not the negatives
Now I have to learn to face
the things I'm scared of
the same things I have dreamed of
Now I have to learn how to be okay
I'm used to licking knives
don't understand this silver platter
What do you mean I can't
earn a mother's love, it's just given
She's screamed far too many times
that I can never be forgiven
I must have been my fault
Part of me wants to say it wasn't
How do I learn to be okay?
Is it good to feel this way -
like things are going to get better
like there's hope for tomorrow
like I don't have to hide myself
or place my feelings on
a shelf filled with stacks of books of poetry
Maybe I don't need these words to be free
Maybe I don't have to bleed
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