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I used to write short stories about real events A girl called Michelle inspired me to write poems She was writing in a notebook on the counter Out of curiosity, I asked her what she was writing
            If the lined pages                    Were a prison                  Then the words               Were the prisoners            Whose sentences
Coffee-stainedAnd littered with ear-dogged pages,Oh, composition book;You were always my favorite.  
Supportive, dependable, yet completely silent. Tells stories of complete fiction and the happiest of memories In a language only comprehensible to me. There for me when I need to cry
I have many universes in my hands They go beyond the limitations of this concrete world My hands instead hold countless worlds crafted by graphite and sweat
I am like a notebook with blank pages of uncertainty and past mistakes never completely erased. The spiraled edge will break with too much inside,  yet I can't add more space.
oh father what has happenedto you? what on earth stole from you your guitar? and told you to stop singing to your baby girl?  oh father theres a darkness that settles in your eyes thsese days.
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