For a friend

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You are the shards of a mirror used in a mosaic. You catch the Light as you did before you shattered, And yet the Light is more beautiful for it all— The breaking, the cracking, the gluing,
  Who am I? What am I? I have questioned myself since I could talk I was given this identity from the day I was able to walk My father calls me daddies little girl
The South Scenic Call   It’s morbid To give it a name; Such a pretty name. A name that rolls easily
                                                                I worry that the heartbeats will no longer be beats but soft thumps  
She writes her own music Her piano offers a release It's the only time when  The bad thoughts finally cease    Her parents do not know  They would never understand 
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