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Pastels are pretty
Pastels are sweet
They leave their mark
But they wear out

Pastels are amazing
Each shade unique
Their colors blend
A work of fine art

Pastels are amusing
A childhood toy that'll soon be
Chucked away in a corner
Forgotten by it's owner

Pastels are fragile
Pastels get dull
They get stained
After a while

Pastels will break
Pastels are weak
They get crushed
And they'll never get fixed

People are like pastels
Inside we're dying
Outside we're forgotten
I guess both are probably broken
I'm very confused
I don't even know myself
I wonder who will?
I sit in a classroom
Full of incessant chatter
Full of people
Staring into space
Surfing the web
Every buzz
Every whisper
Gets me on my nerves
Because
No one's listening
To the patient man
Who's trying so hard
To get his point across
Listen
to the soft melodies
you can hear their stories
through the humdrum of sounds

Listen
to my heartbeat
you can hear the weak
steady pumping of a heart

Listen
to the silence
you can hear the sirens
calling out for your love

Listen
to the wind
you can hear the beauty it holds
from deep within

Listen
to her voice
you can hear the sadness
beneath the "happy" noise

Listen
it's the best thing you can do
the next step would be
to take her with you
to a far away place
preferably with morning dew

She'll feel at peace
and that's all you'll ever need
childhood*
is a patchwork of innocence and inquisitiveness
meticulously sewn over the burning of an oil lamp
filled with the warmth of happiness.
note how you burn the happiness though.
Everyone's writing
Their ballad or villanelle
But my mind's empty
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