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All Mother.

The thing that I think you don’t realize

Is that all I create all the art I make

All of the words I tie into poetry

All of the ink I let seep onto paper-

All the inventions of creativity

I can conjure from nothingness

And from-bore a wonderful something-ness

All of the art in all of the bones

In all of my body

Is all you.

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Written by
hayley-neininger
American
Published
Apr 1, 2013
Lines·Words
10·67
Notes

Who I miss terribly today.

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