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Again with the attitude about my writing
Why should my words threaten anyone?
Glancing around my room I see pieces of paper
thrown here and there, each with a tale to tell
Thin layers of my life living on their surfaces
Hey, they know how to keep a secret at least
I trust the words more than I trust myself
Maybe your fear stems from the possibility
that my words have found their own voice
My fingers and the pen have fallen in love
and all of the dancing upon the paper
has finally produced speaking children
The fact that you don't care for their ideas
is no fault of mine, I did not cause your pain
My entire existence is encased in words
This insatiable need to write is all consuming
My soul ever striving to find acceptance
or at least tolerance in an unforgiving life
The words I write allow me to move forward
They are not meant to threaten, and yet...
Again with the attitude about my writing
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