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a, perfect. poem
I have a confession.
It’s a problem that
only a rich girl could have
and I probably should
shut my pretty little
mouth up and go
socialize instead of
complaining about what
you want. But I won’t.
I am too perfect.
I do the right things always,
people say that “you
can count on her” and
nothing else. My personality
feels like a canvas, painted
and ripped and cried over
and sang to and stretched
out, until it was nearly
complete:
and then re-stretched
onto a new frame
and painted with an
all-encompassing
inescapable
inexplicably painful
snow color.
and now I have
no song of the heart
to share, no hopes or
dreams to scatter to
the people on the ground
I have no heartbreak,
no sadness, no long
deep scratches to show
that I have lived a life.
Somebody washed my
past and folded it
and locked it up away,
somewhere, so I
don’t even know if my skin
is white or black.
And now, if you’ll excuse
me, I think that I should
be crying delicately into a
lacy white handkerchief
right about now.
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Favorite Quote:
Gil: I would like you to read my novel and get your opinion. <br /> Ernest Hemingway: I hate it. <br /> Gil: You haven't even read it yet. <br /> Ernest Hemingway: If it's bad, I'll hate it. If it's good, then I'll be envious and hate it even more. You don't want the opinion of another writer.
Beautiful poem, by the way, so eloquently written.
...but I still think you would look awesome with a sleeve of tattoos ;)