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Sometimes Something is missing One feels like singing One feels like laughing One feels like yelling.  
A long phone call. I let her talk. I had nothing to say. Unusual. No jokes, questions. Thoughts.   Something’s wrong.
Everything?Or nothing? Everything is the way the flower blooms, and the nothing is the way it shrivels and dies.
Everything?Or nothing? Everything is the way the flower blooms, and the nothing is the way it shrivels and dies.
I'm everything and nothingand yet still something.I'm rude and polite.Mean and nice.Fire and ice.
What is it that I am But a cloth hung up to dry In the spring breeze Quickly, hopefully, before it rains. And when it rains, I am forgotten, Drenched again from head to toe,
Breathe Take a second to breathe A diaper needs changed Immediately I'm a father. You Intimidated by nature A pill bends my creator Finally I'm relieved of anxiety
My body is subject to pointing out the obvious- I have curves in odd places, and yes I wear a size 32 jean- but that doesn't mean I'm average. As women we're taught our first words "diet" and "beauty"-
You Are You feel lost
A Pilot, Engineer, World Activist, it goes on and on People get mixed up with a Job, Just to get payed, to become rich,  these things don't change your life. Perhaps they do keep a roof over your head,
I get what i need, for things people would not only understand but look at me weird. I am not a troubled child, but descretely unusual.
I once read a poem. It was about nothing. Then I started to think hard. What is ‘nothing’? Not sure how many people have thought that.
Life has Something, Something to fill it. This Something will fill it to the brim. It will also stretch life to the longest it can be, Without, of course, making it thin you see.  
Life is a perpetual cold. It is said to cure it "Do what you're told. Don't stray from the norm, or life will suck." But I am not a sitting duck. The status quo is getting old,
The tides usher the same waves Resounding old news: Blood, death, slavery To hatred. Wrath, fear, envy. The cold tides rend the soles of my feet, They tear at the men and women on the bank,
A solitary pencil drags itself, forlornly, estatically, and furiously, across a lined page. A page that was  previously devoid of any emotions.   
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