the walls

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i am punctured,?
i am scraped,
?i am dirty,?
i am covered up with colors?  
that don't explain who i am.?
nothing does justice to what i've seen,
?what i've been through.?
i am a prop,?
a decoration,
?a canvas,?
i'm taken for granted,
?and yet i stand here,
where i belong,?
waiting for someone to know me,?
someone to see me,
instead of use me.?
waiting for a purposeful reason to keep standing.?waiting to be stripped down to the colors?   
i've covered far too long.
?but the only question is, ?
will what i truly am,?
accept what i've become.





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