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From here henceforth, I write without a rhyme. Just meter shall foretell my poem’s design. Ten syllables for every line of words, Unstressed then stressed, like human heartbeats thump.
I lived many lives through words.  I shed tears for heroes who didn't exist, Written poetry for none but me, And sung for only trees.   For years I've roamed these halls,
Yellow and grey- A sickly combination For the skin of a prior beauty queen. A machine to help you breathe, And a face I hardly recognize.
In my constant state of anxiety ridden gait, I shuffle to class, avoiding eye contact as to not converse, as my own mind is sufficient or inefficient enough. Passing by the same hallway everyday leaves me numb, as did the amount of infatuation tha
They are with you when needed. Soulful angels in our crises. They wear wings – wings of love. What would we do if they were not there? Civilization would cease. The world would be so cruel.
I Remember My exploration of limericks, stanzas started at poets drawn from shavings of high ambition. Fragmented dreams, misplaced desires etched with ink onto my Incomplete storyboard.  
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