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by Poet on the Piano May 17, 2011 category : Miscellaneous / Misc. poems
-I act as a roaming villager here in this circus of clowns and I never get to stop- held back from painting my own truth. Inhaling lies, I cover the markings of love, wonder with distraught hands. Should I show the sky my scars, or let my words become smiles of interpretation?-