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Frequent Flyer

Ironic don’t you think?

Even clipped

These wings instinctively move with the wind,

They’re slapping at my face

Hoping I fall from the sky

Pulling but I keep pushing

Must be hunting season

Feels like I’ve got a target on my back

Critics don’t cut me any slack

I just smile and keep writing

Silently flying

On my way to the top

It’s a lonely ride

But I’m not ready to stop.

 

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Waves, Until They Weren’t

How bizarre it is to live on Earth.
How your life can flip in an instant.
How you think you have vision,
but your sight is actually muffled from sleep,
from believing that enough is all you deserve.
You remain blinded in a puddle of selling yourself short.
The illusion. The mysteries of our world.
The fine, near invisible line
that only some are lucky enough to notice and conquer.

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