'The soft blank stair of my gazing happiness.
The slight blush that sits upon my cheeks.
The dim silhouette that caresses my being.'
Those lines were once a poem.
Hiding behind my sheets of agony and pain.
Curing my writers block.
'My tattered blankets on the floor.
The blade fell to the grounds.
As my soft sigh shimmered down.'
Something to be called happy.
Gave me that pain to destruct.
With despair in the palm of my hand.
'My fight for what is right.
My sins that I did not write.
My heartfelt tragedy that you wrote.'
The hope of my lust.
The desire to recreate what wasn't.
The soft smile turns to the distraught frown.
'The soft touch of his lips.
The soft stair of his eyes.
The soft words of "I love you".'
Those words were never a poem.
That hid behind my sheet of agony and pain.
Those words are the beginning.
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