Nothing

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 30, 2018

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Submitted: September 30, 2018

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If you think writing isn't art

you haven't read the words my mangled heart,

has etched upon walls

in journals, or stalls. 

You haven't read my drunken scribble 

or seen me as I grapple 

for a way to describe 

my tough exterior, my hide.

The feelings dwelling inside

The thoughts I can't speak, when I don't want to feel,

so I drink.

Words don't have power she said,

as she wrote herself dead,

and rid herself of the only thing she had left to cling

Identity.


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