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My Life...

Michelle B., brooklyn, NY By Michellebrain, brooklyn, NY

My life is a book.
With no genre, it lay.
Unread, alone.
It lay astray.
With no one to hold it,
And flip its delicate pages,
That are now old and brown,
Dusty and wrinkly.
The binding now ripped,
It cries.
Endless sorrow it holds.
But there is a twist, you see.
There were footsteps, down the long endless corridor.
The footsteps heading towards it.
And so, the footsteps finally stopped.
And the long delicate arms picked up the now torn, dusty, wrinkly book.
And it carried it close to its heart.
Hugging it to its chest.
Down the long corridor we went,
The never ending corridor.
And then we stopped.
And down I went,

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