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True understanding is a function of verse. Jumbling up a puzzles painstakingly pieced together allows full aprreciation for the picture within. This is why I write.
"Why am I so feared?" I ponder this ages. I ponder this for years. I am the "Evil Queen," they say. "Snow White, the poor girl!" they say. I wasn't always this way...so obsessed with beauty and such
Raven black hair, long and beautiful A rosy flush of dimpled cheeks, When will my refletion show who I am inside? Grab the scissors, cut the hair, Ride off into the night,
Sitting in this rock hard chai
Once, there was a little girl
The best part of art lies in the subconscious, Not within the scrutiny of a scholar’s essay, Not within the thoughts that the artist speaks to herself, But within the very muscles of the hand,
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, Ankle biting and cold air, nothing to stop me, but so many things to keep me away. How does one make words into sentences again? The world has forgotten,
I am slowly fading into a daze, this is the 1st phase. I wish it was more astounding, this strange finding. It goes beyond measure, known as something that I never asked for,
What is black and sometime color... Always escaping from everyone... Never the right thing... So meaningful... Yet so plain? What is this mysterious thing... Always used...
Who is the lady appearing blatantly before their eyes, In a Renaissance orbiting culture and sacred lies, But blasphemy she be not, Rather an untold secret the public forgot.