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A girl.A girl.
A girl with bright blue eyes.
Who loves the night but is afraid of the dark.
A girl who loves horror stories and sad songs.
A girl who lives for the sun but stays in the rain.
A girl who lives her real life, but plays it like a game.
A girl who has many loves, none of them being requited.
A girl who speaks so many tounges, but none can be understood.
Who speaks with her mind and her heart but some choose not to hear.
Who tries to understand those who sometimes fear.
Who hides her pain and her misery inside.
Who shines so brightly in the light.
Who has a fondness for art, sunflower seeds and poetry.
Who loves to draw, even though she feels like she can't.
Who is insecure, and laughs anyway when a joke is made.
Who is misunderstood, but follows along anyway.
Who has dark auburn hair, shiny glasses and a smile that could dazzle millions.
Who is this girl?
Who speaks her mind?
Who keeps her feelings inside?
....Since you asked.
I am this girl.
This girl is me.
Anniversary (Part 2) Anniversary
Ben woke up on the couch after crying himself to sleep that night. He sat up and sighed.
He sniffled and cried a bit, then got up off the couch, walked upstairs to the attic to go look through his and Nny's old photo's to try and cheer himself up.
He makes his way over to a large trunk with a large heart embroidered onto it and opened it. He pulls a few photographs of him and Nny out, and look over them.
He reaches back into the chest and pulls out a small postcard that looks a little torn, tattered and old. "W-wha..?" He says, then looks it over. It was from eon's ago and it looks like it came from Hawaii
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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