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As a young child,
I would go out and pick a flower.
Flowers are pretty, picking them is fun.
Then I would torture this flower,
Tearing off it’s petals it grew,
One by one.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
Over and over.
Killing the poor defenseless piece of nature.
I’ve grown,
After years and years,
I don’t go to those flowers now.
Instead, I torture myself.
He loves me,
He loves me not.
I miss him,
I miss him not.
Thoughts and thoughts,
Coursing through my head.
I’v began to pick off my petals now,
Pieces of my heart crashing to the floor.
He loves me,
He loves me not.

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SailorHarryThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Jan. 11, 2014 at 10:50 am
This is incredibly relatable and disturbing how true 
Baylee_Allen said...
Jan. 11, 2014 at 12:12 am
I really love this poem, especially how it expresses real emotion.
WWWWWWWw said...
Jan. 10, 2014 at 3:34 pm
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