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April Emmeline

Updated: Fri, 18 Jan 2019 05:47 pm

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I'm Emma, I'm 19 and I don't claim by any stretch to be the world's best writer, or even a good writer. But I started to wonder what was the point of letting the things I do create sit around unread. I just want to share the things I do.


This is part of a longer poem about the being alive. He bows at her body, thankful and polite, acknowledges the service, plays the part. She smiles at stories, smart enough to be cynical but hopeful enough to be happy. He takes out a notepad and pretends not to watch for a reaction As she reads his silver words As she reads his mind through the blunt tool of his silver words. He runs. He thinks he’s wrong because she told him so. He is wrong. She wishes she never learnt to question things and then wonders why she is wishing away the liberation of criticism. He falls down. It doesn’t end.

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