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If you're afraid to speak,
Come with me.
I'll teach you how to use a pen,
So you may write it out.
Because if you can write,
Someone else can speak it for you.
Words are power
I’ll keep on telling you that I love you—
soft as dust on lace,
a whisper tucked in velvet drawers,
a melody wound into time
by trembling hands and silver keys.

Like the ballerina turning in her little glass world,
I’ll spin my love in slow circles,
over and over—
even when the tune grows thin,
even when the gears grow tired.

When the cogs in my mind lose their rhythm,
when the clockwork in my chest falters,
when my fingers no longer reach to hold you—
still, somewhere beneath the hush,
my heart will echo its worn refrain:
“I love you, I love you…”

Until the spindle stops,
until the lid closes gently,
and all that’s left
is the scent of old music,
the silence that remembers
the song we once knew.
Went out early morning
Hit the road and stuck out my thumb
A passerby gave me a ride
From that moment on, I was gone

Tripping across the great divide
From one point to the next
I'd call those to say adios
But do they know I've even left

Up and down the side of mountains
Back and forth along the coast
When you've no idea of where you're going
There's the slimmest chance that you'll get lost

Keep in mind I find no hurry
As I watch the world scurry about
Caught up in their plans and worries
Out of control in the fast lane of doubt

Not really sure how long it's been
Could be weeks, months, or years
Since the day I found my way
To make it away from all life's cares

There's so much to find when peace of mind
Decides to make a run
As day after day, out of the gate
From here to there, sticking out my thumb
I stand in this inky crucible,
Staring down the gemstones of my work,
But which of these sparkling stones,
Is beautiful enough to be brought to light?
I have blue sapphires,
The color of lonesome waters,
Made of solemn tears.
I have clear diamonds,
Cut carefully,
Each face polished delicately.
But are any of these good enough,
To be shown to the masses?
What if they don't shine as bright,
When they are brought to the light?
I'm pulling poems,
But I'm afraid,
I might set the back down anways.
I'm trying to pick some poems to read for a school event, not going too well.
The truth is,
There's no elite thinker's society,
We're all elite in our own respect.
We evolved from bent over forms,
Working for raw survival.
But as we grew, some of us split away,
Faded from simple survival,
Growing a taste for art.
So were born the sculptors,
The painters, and the poets.
Clever as they were,
The old artists.
They formed a secret society,
For elite thinkers to survive.
Can we take that idea and use it to save those who've avoided the brainwashing?
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