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They want to **** us
They want to keep us in a grave embrace
They want to stroke our thick coarse hair with talons
They want to nuzzle our chins with their gun
This kind of love hurts
Must I keep loving?

If you don't love first and fast, who
Broken things
Funny thing about broken things
Common in a imposters perfectionist sights
Big pictures flashy
Turn the small away
Glorified images are made of small
The small grow into big

Knowing greedy fingers pluck the flower
Leaving the headless root and severed veins to perish
The bloom lasts not long with its foundation
Why not pluck the root, it does most of the work?
It’s isn’t pretty?
Define pretty.
Does it keep you alive?
How hideous!
But fleeting beauty is all the rise
A touch,
A glimpse,

Society is a very messy child
Shards of what has been lays at her feet
Of what’s beautiful she distorted you see
She is a very jealous child
With bright blue eyes that see nothing
and bone straight blond hair that dares not blow in the trying wind
Fair skin that never tans and dainty fingers that bears talons and touch’s not lightly
Such soft skin that merely blankets her bones

Surrounding me kneels broken things
Not outstandingly beautiful nor notably hideous-
Every night they would sing me to sleep on my mattress by my window
Broken things sing
One unsound whisper
Is all it takes
For the pieces to fall away
In tears
I saw as it ran over me
In tears
A fragment I hold fast
With a broom and dust pan I sweep up my fears
No no else can get cut by these selfish selfish thoughts
Of mine.

— The End —