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Poetry…or something like it.

April 8, 2011

She had eyes mixed with fire

and other people’s cries

because it was not love she had been given

it was more of a resemblance of loss

like a child given a blanket at birth

only the blanket is never outgrown

but is dragged along

like a little piece of toilet paper

stuck on the sole of a shoe

it’s not even glue that is holding it there

but rather the sustenance of the unwanted,

the embarrassment.

Like a painter who’s paint brush is out of bristles.

It’s more like painting with thistles

from the weed of a sagebrush;

it can only cover so much.

She had a life mixed with liars

who always seemed to tell her

what they always knew was never the truth

because they kept the truth hidden in themselves

so deep that it became buried underneath

all of the paintings of flowers

and paper mache dolls

and rudimentary candles

lit with rudimentary flame

covered in temporary stain

that cannot be removed

without the rarest of chemicals

bought through the price of the lives of animals

and saltwatered fears developed from the tears

of the rich

as well as the poor

but not the in-between

because the in-between have the best of both worlds.

But she had a mind mixed with hope.

Because hope is the overtaker, not the undertaker.

Because hope is the left when all you have is the right.

Because hope is the true love of some guy

that she can’t even imagine ever walking by her side.

But some guy that will actually make that walk,


and love every moment of being by her side.

Because hope is the hand reaching out

when the weight of the whole world is felt.

Because there is hope for her,

just like there is hope for you.

Because hope is an anchor for the soul;

an anchor that not even the son of the devil

can ever even dream to alleviate.

Because hope is found

in the deepest of waters

and the friendliest of fires.

Because hope is protected by hope.

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