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I’m sick of having hope I’m worn thin from believing For the world in proving these are child’s things Has sliced my little throat Grow up it says As it slaps me And hurls me to the ground And with a couple timely kicks Brands me with pain profound So that I won’t forget How could I? And I do not But I do go on And when I find myself Here on the ground I place a check beside all the rest Then stand to be brought down For when I stand The stars above Are closer to my hand About J.M. Turcotte
Fantasy Author | Weaving Enchanted Tales of Magic, Ruin & Hope | Dreaming in Ink & Stardust | Fueled by Coffee
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