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I loved her,
But she held her past in her palms,
Refusing the release the grip on controlled pain
That had stemmed from uncontrollable disappointment,
Anointed with a strong mind and and vulnerable heart,
She saw through people like glass,
And when I looked through her peephole all I saw was past,
Opaque, dark, skeptical,
Since then she has been a receptacle
Attracting all manner of doubt,
And though I loved her,
She could never go without,
Her pain, her history, her journey, her fear,
Walls for years smeared with tears inflicted by peers,
Or her other half in a romantic pair,
Her face though fair,
Housed that callous spirit,
I brought a whirlwind for the dirt, trying to clear it.
She passed the cycle on to me,
Then from me to the next she,
Then from she to the next he,
He sees all women now as stupid B’s,
He’s too genteel to say bitches,
Regardless he digs his defenseive bridges,
Pulls himself up by the britches,
And switches on these females like she was the one with the glitches,
Oooh, what a conundrum so cold,
Funny how a cycle can anesthetize so many souls,
And the holes we leave in others have them questioning their own poles,
We’re the nuclear bombs that have em spinning off their axis,
And we say fuck em til we’re claiming them on our taxes,
But how will the masses congeal like molasses,
If no one is sweet enough to engage?
Play the game, turn the page,
Deny the love, its all the rage,
Hurt her once, and you’re to blame,
Hurt her twice, replay the game,
Vicious cycle.



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