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Rated: E · Poetry · Experience · #2214207
I don't really know.
She was lonely,
She was sad,
But she had never really uttered
Any words that were bad.

She would ponder,
She would muse,
Whatever was it that had left her
In this meaningless ruse?

Is it fear?
Is it foes?
Something holding her back,
Something keeping her on her toes?

Yet she moves,
But never speaks,
To the rhythm of it all,
To the life of the beat.
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