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A Memory

The ink slips down,
an empty page.
The next page of
my story.

What I write, no one will see.
It’s not who I want to be.

I don’t want to be remembered
by the smile on my face,
or my delicate hands.

Nor will you remember me,
by the art I made,
the stories I wrote,
or the books I read.

My mirror mimics me.
The me no one sees.

My smile is forced,
My life a wreck.
Who wants to remember,
a suicidal freak?

But,
There was someone,
There are people.

I am a butterfly,
Weak, yet strong.

I am a true smile,
They’ve seen my eyes light up,
like the neon lights.

I want to be remembered for them,
For what they built me to be.
Not the delicate Rose,
But the stem guarded by thorns.

Reach for me,
And you’ll bleed.
Handle me with care,
And it’ll be perfect.

The art I draw,
Everything holds a piece of me.
The stories I write,
Express my life in a new way.
Secrets hidden between the lines of the poem.

I want to be remembered
but,
I want to be held forever,
so you won’t have to remember,
You’ll just see.



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