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Why do we hold material things So close to our hearts That they get smothered in the loving Why do we need to feel special The need to be more unique than others To have others worship what we say or do
As I roam the poor streets of Ethiopia, The wails of the children come to my attention. I look to my left and see the worn-out, oversized clothes That hang loosely on their bodies.
I don't want to be that girl the one in the way or the one who cries from the pain.
What can I saywhen they sky is greyPeace will never be shown in a form of loveinstead we will always see it as war and bloodWhat much can we doto be involved and keep everything cool
Excerpt from his life, he would never want to recollect.
She starves herself through the night Just to find her own experiences to write She strives for talent and strives for attention Just to be known by her word inventions   A girl deprived of her own dreams
Why do I write, you ask? May I ask, why you breathe? Why you sleep?   Writing is to me as wind is to air, as wing is to dream. as rain is to earth.
It has been torn to pieces and glued back together. It has been prodded at, shoved then bandaged up tight. It knows no restraint, and is blamed in the end. All it needs is just one friend.
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