March 4, 2011
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His hands are like stones
Arctic to most
His smile, unknown
As shy as a ghost
His timing is rotten
As loose as the breeze
A creature forgotten
By all except me
He is so much more
Than the figure they see
I see him for
Not the lint on his sleeve
But the unrecognized
Hope in his eyes

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Brittbyheart said...
Apr. 8, 2011 at 10:13 pm
I like the meaning to it! But...its not a sonnet :(
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