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She (a poem)

To the young girl, lady or old woman who suffered or is suffering the pains of a splitting tenderness, I give you my words…

A bed of thorns is what she made.

“And there,” she said, “when I die, I may be laid.”

The people cried

and to stop her, they tried

but not even Angels could prevent this spiritual suicide.

She lost her hope and couldn’t find her belief

-I was told Anger was her thief!

The girl did well to hide her pain

and a mastery at “faking it” made her face porcelain.

Past that shiny glass skin and within those hard, brown eyes,

a sea of blackness and blood gently lies.

No-one knew,

no-one knows and no-one will ever know

because she is not a Charity Case

and her agony is not for show.

For they do not deserve any explanations,

she will not slave her way to provide them information

or live toward their expectations.

You say she is unkind, she is bad, she is wicked, indeed;

But why then, do you come to her, when the opposites of what she is are what you need?

Think again, you arrogant and ignorant anchor

before you corrupt the world to its purest core (she)!

And turn back not now,

for she will not allow you;

And apologize not now,

for she will not forgive you.

She will not forget..

You will live to regret!

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