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I love how
Paint chips off the
Walls of this house
And how my sneakers
Are dirtied,
Maybe even torn at the edges
With their laces in fringed bouquets
Or how
My friendship bracelets are tarnished
And my books have coffee-stained, tampered pages
And I don't mind you
Or scratched,
Speckled with flaws,
With wrinkles when you smile
Or your childhood memory's scars
Or the dark circles under your eyes
Or your rough hands
You've been worked to the bone
There is nothing more beautiful than something that has served it's purpose.
What makes people beautiful isn't what they would normally think.
You are the hurricane in my chest
That can't seem to move along.
Your winds
Mess with the way my heart beats
But I wouldn't want it
To pump your love any way else.

You are that
Killing feeling at the pit of my stomach.
But I would
Deprive myself
of the most delectable words
If it meant keeping these butterflies forever.

You are the fallen eyelash
On my eyeball.
I can see you.
I can feel you.
With the slightest movement,
I know where you are.
But I can't seem to get you out
And the more I try,
The more it hurts,
The more I convince myself
To let you stay.
I watch my mother
Watch the colorful static buzz
Out of my television Set.
It was a show about dancing and synchronized steps
Bending bones
And malleable movements.
The screen was painted
With graceful bodies
And it echoed of
hip hop music
And I watch my mother
Scratch her head cause
She could never really get her
hips to hop
And she didn't know how that was different from
the pop
and the lock
and the shuffle
and the dougie
And I heard her murmur under her breath
"This is my biggest frustration"

I guessed that's what people say
When they just can't get something Right.
The feeling
The longing
The want is in them,
But their body
Still tells them to trip over their
Two left feet
When they watch
The way I watch my mother
Want to be a dancer

And I watch my mother
shake it off
and smile
and change the channel
And it is the saddest thing in the universe to me
That she could just forget
that one thing
she so desperately wanted to be.

Are my biggest frustration.
That no matter how hard I seem to try
I just couldn't get you right.
I swear, staring at you
Makes my eyelashes
Flutter a hip hop beat like no other
But you just can't dance
To music you can't hear
And you can't see
This amazing
I have mapped out for us in my head
I know you're great at that.
You can
Shuffle and dougie
as far away as possible from me.
But just like my mother who couldn't get her hips to hop,
I couldn't get you lips
To talk about
Anything that wasn't her
And I know your mouth can speak
But why are you so at loss for words
When the lyrics come
Are my syllables not worth your breath,
Is my rhythm not worth your
I promise you I try to catch up
But I trip over my two left feet
When I see your eyes glisten
When you watch her
The way my mother watches the dancers and I know you wanna be with her

So you finally hear my music
Or so I am convinced that you do.

And you shuffle
And take each graceful step
To the beat of
The wrong heart

But I just can't change the channel.
I can't smile and shake it off
Because I have to wait and see
If there'll ever be a time
You'd dance to me.
I hope to perform this one day.
There will come a time
When the one who planted you
Will be nowhere to be found.
You'll wonder
Why they'd left you
As such a little sprout.
But then you'll start to realize
That maybe it's your time to
Without someone to water you.

Maybe it's time to rely on the rain.
Goodbye to one of the first few people who believed in my writing! Wherever you may go next, I hope you will water many others, like you did with me.
He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.
While you worry
For someone
To see past
Your flaws,
I will be locked
In the embrace
Of someone
Who took the time
To look at them hard enough,
To caress the very surface of
To  dig skin-deep
Until he found
What once made the flaw
My hair fall shampoo
Didn't quite work
This time around.
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