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I have run out of pretty words to say. Until they come back to me, I thought I would get this off my mind.

I’m not a poet. I have the ability to rhyme every once in awhile. Poetry is insight on the writer to the reader. And quite obviously, I am not a poet, because I have never felt so misunderstood in such a long time.

I am complicated. Smart. Observant and attentive. Both bitter and sweet. I’m a good listener and say things without thinking.

There is so much more to me than anyone ever cares to find out. Which is both my loss and theirs because the gift of even a brief moment of understanding is a lovely thing. And I try my very best to return the gift.

I’m an angel. Crooked halo, dirty wings and broken heart just looking for someone to hold my hand.

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