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willow sophie Jun 2019
I tried to explore
what was beyond this world.
I made tracks
made only of wax.
Steps and steps
made of wax, not wicks.
Alas, it was all in vain,
destroyed not by wind or rain.
As I got close to the sky,
I swear I could fly,
until the sun melted my path;
it was the repeated aftermath.
willow sophie Jun 2019
If I defy
the word, rather,
the lies
of my superior,
my opinion is defined as
politically incorrect.
willow sophie Jun 2019
To be a sinner
or a saint,
it's a picture
they paint.

They scare us
into submission,
it's not much
of our decision.

It doesn't matter though,
we're all the same,
we are all greedy
and seek riches and fame.
willow sophie Jun 2019
Curiosity leaks like venom from your lips
and you pester me,
consistantly.
I assure you,
though,
that you wouldn't appreciate the answer;
I doubt you could begin to fathom
what I have suffered.
willow sophie Jun 2019
you're sweet,
your soul dented
with every cruel poke
to your heart.
Yet, you remain so,
very so sweet.
Sort of like
honeycomb.
willow sophie Jun 2019
A white fabric,
a curtain, perhaps?
I'm not sure.
It's covered with dust
that floats in the air
of the sunlit room
as I pull it off of my most
prized possesion.
Just the same as I remember;
ivory keys in perfect shape,
ebony keys in between.
A black glaze painted expertly
on fine sprucewood.
The keys are cold
against my fingertips
as they drift mindlessly,
creating song.
willow sophie Jun 2019
I have acquired messy handwriting
over the years,
so difficult to read,
to comprehend.
Similar to a code,
but definitely not as interesting.
I envy the wispy lines of ink on parchment
that can only belong
to a calligrapher.
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