Quiet Angel

June 6, 2009
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She stares into the eyes of the hopeless
Wishing they could see, hoping they might know
that there is plethora amount of possibilities
Crippled, we seem
Hurt, we're deemed
Tripled, the pain
The eyes of the hour glass broken
Praying for our children to be astute, urbane
Plead, we try
silent tears, we cry
and made to decieve
For she cuts and bleeds, with every one of those needs
The place may be unclean, impure, but she can still recieve
Because frugal we are not
Demented, we decree
Yet she treks;
With a heart to strive
And the guts to believe

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