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Sep 2014
it is 12 pm and i'm trying not to smudge
the makeup my eyes adorn -
or rather, the eyes the makeup adorn.

i remember when my father told me
i'd have his eyes; bedroom blue
i never realized that one day, it'd be
the last thing left of him.

the ink spilling onto this paper
is made from my dreariness;
photos' nectar seeping from printers,
never going to match his ****** scars perfectly,
his crooked nose once sought wear.

i'm never scared of when he returns home
because i dislike being scolded -
i seek his acceptance;

it's now quiet in my head.
my dad constantly tells me his time's running short - my mom would always dismiss it and say it was one of the many guilt trips he gave, but i'm not too sure.
Andy Campbell Graham
Written by
Andy Campbell Graham  18/M/New York
(18/M/New York)   
   Sneha Thakur, Pea and Haydn Swan
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