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Your muddy brown eyes 
They have stained my brain,
And it’s only been 48 hours
So you’ll call me insane

But the depth of my emotions
Is nearly as painful as your presence,
Because I hate you
Yet I beg for acceptance

The shoe seems to fit,
Except for a stone between my toes
Reminds me of our non-existent future,
And my heart wilts like a rose

And this record will be spinning for years
For I am not know to let go
So I’ll continue to water out plant
That’s already ceased to grow

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She thinks she understands a struggle
But she can take a dip into daddy’s wallet
And everything is fine

She thinks she understands culture
But everything is seen through a camera lens
Just seeking out approval from her friends

She thinks she understands uniqueness
But that feeling of freedom comes from within
Not from a rare vintage item in her wardrobe

She has the world at her fingertips
If only she would look up from painting her nails
She hates the shade but her friend said it was cute

She is forever dependent
Forever defensive
Forever detrimental to herself 
Because her worth does not come from within
But from those who surround her

And it breaks my bones
Because she offers so much more alone

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And we lay there
The sky was like a blanket of nostalgia
Each star a memory

Laughter echoed through the galaxies
And our bodies lay mortal as we spoke of love and irrelevance

Harmless mumbles and weightless confessions
Pouring, pouring, pouring

Intoxication for the body
But it unlocked the mind
And each sip tasted like bittersweet hope

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Oh freedom
It is no less than that refreshing sensation of peppermint bouncing through my airways

I am lightheaded
In the right way for once
Tender congratulations from those who truly care

People refer to the summer of their life all the time
The elderly, mothers, films
I don’t want the summer of my life just yet but I don’t think it will wait any longer

I can see freedom in my ink
I can see it in my watch
I long for the hours in which I don’t know, or care, what day it is

I am away and that’s all that matters

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It’s the uncomfortable race
That can only be cured by Man,
The spirits have no care for my pain.

But the problem begins with Man,
And Man alone is a man alone,
All at mercy of one solid.

Is it wrong for emotions to be controlled
By colourful chemicals in a packet?
Are we supposed to be alone?
Or are our spirits so dark they should be watered down with spirits of Man?

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And so it repeats.

I was mistaken once again,
Thinking that you were interested in my burning flesh,
But really I was just your excuse.
Nothing more than an antiseptic to what was so simply lost.

And so it repeats.

Now I look for an antiseptic of my own,
To soothe my fiery fury of what ifs.
And to all those who care,
you can correct me but it is little use,
When it’s 2.13 am and I am still awake sinking into myself to find a release.

And so it repeats

And I will wake the next day still looking for antiseptics but all I see is you,
Flesh clean and rinsed of forgotten residue,
Looking healthy as ever while I still suffer and whimper in the grave.

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All they do it talk, talk, talk
No thoughts are fathomed
Just spitting dirt and privilege at my face

"Respect your elders" they say
But how can I respect your lowering
Of my, and my gender’s, value

A 10 year old boy can wolf whistle at me
Whilst all his friends laugh
But I cannot expose my offensive shoulders

My mother condemns me for questioning
Why men are allowed to intimidate me
But I must kiss the floor they’ve touched

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Every time you whisper sweet nothings in my ear they only last a few hours until I need another hit.

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He was easily replaced. You were already in my soul but unfortunately undiscovered. Now you are my America and I cannot stop exploring you. I don’t know if you care for me.
You speak with such an intimidating wisdom that I am hesitant but every time a word escapes your mouth I want to be the first to hear it.
You do not see it and you do not understand that I am within your soul too. You are clueless.

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Even after all this time it is still so difficult to consolidate my feelings. Distance has been my friend for the last month even though I treated it like an enemy for many months before. I hope it is over now. The record has been taken off repeat but people are still asking for it to be played. I once loved the feeling but now it drives me to madness and I am tired in every sense. 

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Pennies are rather like humans. They are all unique. All made at different times and all made equally. However, over time each one travels the world on it’s own journey. Through that journey they might be damaged or marked. Then, some others will sit inside a money box for years getting dirty and old.

When we look at pennies we favour the shiny, clean items. We do not wonder how or why that slightly older looking penny obtained scratches on its once clean copper skin. No. We have no interest for those that possess personality. We simply look for the most “airbrushed”.

We don’t just discriminate against age but also colour. The darker coins are dirty and ones are often avoided, even though they were all created equally with the same purpose.

So no matter the colour, age or quality of your penny always remember that those pennies add up to the same value whether they’re shiny or not. One day that little penny at the bottom of your purse could help buy you a meal or phone your family. You might need that person so don’t ignore them for trivial reasons.

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All I can think about is how I have lost you. Again. I convince myself it will be different each time but here I am listening to your favourite music while you peacefully sleep but,  this time,  in your own bed. You’ve left this small, painful dent on my skin. Rather like the imprint your body would leave on my mattress in the morning as I would watch you escape out of my window and I would inhale the last of your fragrance between the cotton sheets. And as you climbed down the side of my house; you climbed into my head and refused to leave for days. Until one day you left me, so undisturbingly, that the pain of your lost presence was only recognised days later.

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If I peel my lips I’m thinking about you. The sore sting of raw flesh reminds me of the pain you have caused. I am the metallic blood dripping off my cold, whipped lips.

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Today is just another day where I haven’t told you I love you. My calendar is now based on how many days it has been since you kissed me. I keep convincing myself that these fantasies are normal and my constant need for contact is sane. It is far from it. I am living you and it is unhealthy.

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It is strange how everyone is aware of my desire for you yet, you, the very person my feelings concern, are oblivious.