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May 2017
I keep my words to myself.
Hidden, locked,
Buried under the earth.
Quiet, they say.
Don't you ever want to talk to us?
Open your soul to us?

I do.
All
The
Time.

And in moments like these,
A few may escape.
As poetry,
That barely tells the story.
As poetry,
That rarely makes sense.
Dented,
Tainted,
Stuttering,
Like a broken record.

But are you listening?
Β©Meenu Syriac
Meenu Syriac
Written by
Meenu Syriac  India
(India)   
  1.5k
         Axel, AidaDonn, ryn, Sam, Aysha and 26 others
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