Her.

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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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