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I have meaning, past my purpose. I do.   I know this. I am even - most days - convinced of it.  
There is a wall in my psychology class It has a tackboard covered in masks Above it are the words "What makes you who you are?" I often stare at those student made facades Wondering "What makes up my mask?"
How beautiful the crow is as he sits up in the tree, ruffling up his feathers while staring down at me. His gaze is unfaltering and at me he continues to stare, I can see what he has endured and the pain he can bare.
  Sometimes words whisper and sometimes they scream Some people grow in castles that gleam Some of us start much smaller than most Some of us learn that words leave a ghost
Bed Dreams Ah bed so soft and warm I love to jump and play In a feathery swarm Every night and day For a bed is a place that’s fun Now if only I actually had one.
My name is Eden. I am not a garden, not even a flower. I am a shell, a husk, a vessel. I hold in the pain of those closest to me. My pain doesn't stay in this body. It escapes through the cracks and pores.
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