The intricacies of this simple life are all I have to show of value for myself; the veins beneath the surface of my tan skin protrude like winding rivers, endless and pulsating with the ambition to achieve so much more, yet I am hindered by the humanistic limits of the blood that flows through them. These sleepless nights and cigarettes, and calloused hands and past regrets, are meant for me to understand but don’t define the girl I am. Because I wait for answers to my questions, but there is no reply, no voice, no mention, no suggestion or a slight direction – just emptiness and recollection – of things that had existed then, written down from page to pen, it’s all just prose inside my mind, but when expressed they only rhyme, scattered heart expressed through ink, but you wouldn’t even stop to think, that there isn’t really much to say, just pointless words throughout the day, that form to make a pretty sound, a hope that just comes crashing down, so put down the pen, no need to write, just walk away and say goodnight.

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