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Sunday Mornings.

I am exhausted. I feel like everything I do is for other people and I am done with not getting anything back. I am done with people leaving me. Giving them every bone in my body, every ounce of blood in my veins, and being left when there is nothing else to take. I am like the sun. I use up all of my energy, providing for people and once I run out of power, the moon rises. People lay in the grass admiring the stars and the moon, but they tell you never to stare too long at the sun. I am needy and get emotionally attached too easily. Too quickly

But I am so much more than that. I am like Sunday mornings, with the small content feeling of upcoming Mondays. I am like Thursday nights, coming with the minimal excitement not yet reaching the extreme points felt on 6pm Fridays. I am like black coffee with a bitter taste carrassing your tongue still keeping you warm every morning when the street resembles ice-skating rinks. I am the songs stuck in your head. Annoying you, though you feel the need to play me over and over. I am the bobby pins you lose. As each one falls you never seem to notice, until you begin to pick me up from the floor when there is nothing left on the top of your dresser. I am beautiful. Powerful. Artisitic. I provide beauty to the Earth with my art. My movements. My words. My being.

Scrambled Words

On CeCe's Brain

Diamond Tears Painful Stones through small holes Cash in the pain for the obvious gain of a piece of Mind

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