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Ashes
Her tears are ashes
They fall from her face
They smudge black and blue
With despicable grace
Watery blue eyes deep
And wet lashes long
Is where the pain and fear endlessly sleep
They used to tell her in melodious song
That she’d become a hideous beast
She listened to the words and let them break her
They’d pounce and on her strength they’d love to feast
It was like she was boiling, slowly faster and longer
Feeling like she was burning at the stake
Waking up she realized she was golden, she was the harmony
So she no longer needed to fake
What she was or who she is, singing words of sweet ebony
She is powerful now that she has overcome
Her confidence is her company, her pride
She is no longer on her lonesome
She now knew that she had nothing to hide
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Writers are a less dangerous version of the career criminal. Everywhere they go, they see the potential for the perfect crime. The difference is that writers have better self control.