Pretty and unpretty poetry
I find myself perpetually patronizing the pieces of my life…
…those pieces that I am not interested in keeping, but have been slotted in my path — for color, I suppose.
And then it rains
before or after I miss the sun that I know is promised to me.
How lonely is a star? So far from other vibrant orbs, so surrounded by big rocks
that are so comparably small, but eat so much light.
But if I can still hear my voice, then the mood of my scenes are bound to my themes
and my music always moves me.
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A poem a day keeps the doctor away