Obliterate

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Digging in the dirt of long ago,
Trying to uncover what was untold.
And now that the weeds begin to be shown,
Pick them up and throw them in the wind that blows.

Dirt under your cleanly painted nails.
Dirt that remains because no gloves were worn there.
Cut them now, remove all reminders of this.
Recoated in clear so that you can prevent the grime that you don’t want to appear.

Disappointed? Yes. Why lie anymore?
In your mind it was made up of more than ground floor.
The smell of the dirt is covering your wrists.
Scrub off that memory, if it means that all of this will cease to exist.





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