My stained white shirt

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I hate this poem. Then again, at current I hate most things.

Submitted: October 19, 2015

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Submitted: October 19, 2015

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I wear a white shirt. 

Nothing fancy and nothing bold. 
Just a simple white shirt. 
I wear it for all to see. 
 
It fits me fine as it is. 
It always has. 
It stretches as I grow
It never tears at all. 
 
I've had all my accidents with it. 
I've run through the mud with it. 
I've played and laughed with it. 
I've cried and suffered with it. 
 
At first my mother used to wash it
With bleach and other detergents. 
Now I've grown up and I've learned
To do my own laundry. 
 
It's been black a few times.
Orange, purple, red and blue too..
But always gets washed and 
Back to the white with which it grew. 
 
But lately there's a stain 
that I can't scrub off...
The horrible spot,
Of...
 
It dampens my spirit.
It makes me grow old!
It hides my true feelings 
And rots at my soul. 
 
I've cut at the fabric
To remove this black tar
But all I've got left now
Are my horrible scars. 


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