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Poetry Exercise
Sometimes I find there is limited content in his mind.
Sometimes through tainted waves of air
I find he is not as he appears.
Yet still I remain here.
His feel of cotton.
I find as soft as a newborn's bottom.
Yet beyond the comfort of the womb
There is an even more comfortable conformity.
It is not the comfort of love.
I believe in no such thing.
It is in being scared to be alone.
It is to be a bird, and him my wing.
