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Perspective: A Shooting Star Sort of Thing


Something heavy is on my back. Thought it was an attachment but it thinks it's apart of myself. Closed up to consider others and shut up to be humble. Low down wait for a possibility to rise someday. Oppression is self inflicted training. But when my heart bursts and shine rays through the cracks of a sort of shield. This weight on me spreads out to cause shade. And the stretched bones branch out to lift me a little. And suddenly seeing love reflected in the ones I admire is like the wind that pulls me up to sail. The weight are my wings.

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