Her brown crisp bristled tips spun into the cob of a web

  the hounding of the hounds bellow unto the misleading note missing from her head

Algid toes meet her sheets and down below they go

Immersed with her sorrow there's no going home

The unattractive appearance she sees is antithectic of what she truly is

So there, she is sitting alone reading her thoughts again

Her only anticipation left is the longing of her creative hand

Then again her man has left the clan

As outrageous as this is her self-esteem downgraded to the max, as the look of her sight became a blur agony in a trans

 Her misconception of this plot poised her to be a liberated women who loves her confusion of her thoughts.

Guide that inspired this poem: 


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