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The more I think about it the more it hurts
the twisting and warping of someone else words
"GROW UP"
no wait, you're too young
but pay your bills, work all night
and I DECIDE whether you are right
go to work, go to bed
listen to me, you're not an ADULT yet,

I was an adult when I was 12
I talked like you, I dressed like you
hoping to make you proud
I was good, never made a mistake,
worked hard, had no breaks
and still, you tell me to change
change and change and change
be happy, be young
but don't go outside
don't make friends
work hard until you eventually die
trapped in a self-made prison your whole **** life

I GREW UP WHEN I WAS 12
DO YOU UNDERSTAND?
there was no coming of age or birthdays
only disappointed looks and dismay
I will never get those years back
to just be a kid
and be happy

Time flies when you're having fun
so, time only flies when you're young.
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What do I have to do to be happy again?
the absence
of a photograph
a hole the shade of skin
a family all smiles
but one does not fit in
a paper tear,
a paper teardrop
stains the film
is
something gone
that should be
or
someone missing
that shouldn't be?
a ripped reality
peering through the tinted glass
for something you can't see
a blurry fragment
of both
memory
and
humanity
one of my drafts! it's been awhile huh :)
⊹ 
      ·  ˚
·       
  ·    ·  ·      ·  +
   *  ·   ·     she is sea and sand .
fire and wind   ·  ˚
·       
  ·    ·  ·      ·  +·   ·   
   ·    ✵     
  ·  
⋆      
   · ⋆   she is not yours
                                and you are not hers
           .
   ·  ⋆  
    
   · ⋆   *            .   ⊹              ˚  ·
*       ·     ..                         .   *
.    .     *  ·
she is hope and fear
                          miracle and misfortune
·     +  ˚ ·      ˚
       ˚    ·     
.        
.   .        . ⊹    
  . * .    ⋆  ·   she is not yours .      . 
·     +  ˚ ·            lest she mold to your image
* .  .   ·    
   *         .   ⊹
   ·           ·
she is clay and earth
                        and she is her own * .
 *     .   ·    .  *         .   ⊹
   ·    *              
        ⊹     ·
it's almost poetic
the way you look at me
with such anger,
with such hate,
Isn't it great?

Oh it's poetic
when you set me on fire
and burn me to the ground
with your eyes

You're so poetic
when you give me a smile
yeah you burn me alive
but I love it
and I love you

but
I'm so pathetic
because I still need you
and I'll freeze
without you
mama,
the dolls on your dresser stare at me.
their eyes are your eyes
and your eyes are mine,
mama,  
I wear the skeleton of the body we buried,
her weeping eyes full of soil,
mama,
where have you gone?
the swamp swallows all..
no sand nor mud
can hold you down
mama,
your stare cooks the ground
bubbling,
a foolish witch's brew..
oh mama,
what have I become?
silent
swamp and mud and bone..
Have you buried me mother,
with your regrets out back?
dear mama,
cook for me one last time..
salty ragweed soup and cat-tail tea,
oh mama,
bury me
under the sand
beside my dead cat
mama,
bury your daughter
bones thin as my sisters,
oh sister,
dear sister,
your song
breathes out,
down in the muck
whispers of blessings,
of bones,
and the earth down below
the sister we buried
and
the skeleton I wear,
yes bury me mama,
lest I steal your air
some rambles
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