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Feb 2014
We do not call ourselves poets
We bleed when the light does
Proof of our existence
We are not poets
We are translators
We translate the heave of a chest
Into ink
Give words to the desire that burns sheets
Leaving them full of holes
Keep your eyes peeled
And ears alert
It floats through the air
And we are still breathing in
Something beautiful
Written by
Victoria
419
 
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