I Write Poetry
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spilled ink and broken spine

I use to be an open book,
so happy to be read,
able to share my stories,
and the contents of my head,

a gleeful tome was i,
people coming, people going,
sharing the essence of my soul,
with each new visit my stories growing,

then came unknown strangers,
wearing smiles so divine,
whispering words of love and friendship,
as they tore the paper from my spine,

and new approacher's ceased,
I was sad, I must confess,
as I lay upon the pavement,
feeling the numbing of loneliness,

left out in the elements,
the frost and wind and rain,
crying tears of ink as I fall apart,
the only stories I know now are pain,

I used to be an open book,
now just a broke and bleeding husk,
unable to find my pages,
not knowing who to trust.

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