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Feb 2016
For a moment I pause.
Ink from this broken pen
Held ‘tween my fingers bleeds
And stains into my skin.
Now the fateful thought,
That the pen is reminiscent
Of this poets heart akin a wingless
butterfly. My soul that cannot fly.
Tafuta Atarashī
Written by
Tafuta Atarashī  28/M/Chicago
(28/M/Chicago)   
240
   Dhaye Margaux
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