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Mom always writes in uppercase I watch her in repose, The phone in the nape of her neck still sighing Like a helpless long-necked rose.
You will never know the feeling of freedom that surges down my spine, The shiver that cascades through my veins, As we race against time to make memories.
She wondered why he was never home And only thought and thought Maybe he was really near Or maybe he just forgot
I'm no Maya Angelou, Mark Twain, or Emerson. I don't yet know my dearest complaints, intents, or direction. I've never been hurt so bad that I've been deeply pained, I have, however, seen enough to know that we need change.