Ereika

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You can read my life through my poetry.
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I think that sometimes if you think about life as a picture you can paint a more than wonderful photo of the wind... It doesn’t sound like something I should have ended that sentence with but think about it... Most people in life find it that they follow where ever the wind may blow them and if you trace or outlined their movement you would come out with many different forms and shapes of broken wind separated by the soul and body of the human and pulled back together by the love that like glue seals the world of hurt and pain shut. If only I could trace my steps back and paint my life I think that the top of my painting would be skimmed with a thin line of black it would show the pain and hurt that hate took me through before love found my wounded body and protected me through the rest of my hardships. The middle of it would be a peach mixed with neon colors showing the happy days and memories of my child hood and magical, unforgettable moments that I shared with friends and loved ones. Than there would be the bottom, it would be white and pure as a baby’s first day on earth. This would represent the ending of me. The last blow of the wind, the beginning of a new generation... The beginning of a new me in the form of another human. The beginning of a new painting... as I look at my new creation I name my painting and place it in a high place where people could admire and adore my painting... my wind... my traces... my story... my life in the form of a beautiful wind...

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Ereika
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I thought I fell in love once, but how I quickly came to see. True Love is overrated, not meant for one like me. I left myself open, entrenched and blinded by love's design. Engulfed by its p*ssion, utterly lost in space in time. Knowing the end was inevitable, still I made this dubious choice. And felt a pain immeasurable, when I listened to my heart's voice. What is love but a feeling, a word often used in jest. An ephemeral emotion, not worth the time to develop and invest. A captivating story, ending only where it starts. An all-too predictable cycle, this game of broken hearts. Though yielding temporary happiness, it ends in bitter grief. The absence of all hope and faith, of comfort and relief.

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