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May 3
She was always the poet,
but never the poem—
left aching to be unveiled,
forever waiting in the unknown.

She yearns to be a muse,
the subject of every scribe,
inked into love letters,
inspiring a guitar's stride.

But they touched her like plastic
on golden chocolate—
cast her off like *******,
forgotten and discarded.
Written by
Mira  20/F
(20/F)   
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