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 May 2013 Julia
Cheyanne Miller
I’d like to think myself as normal,
Just an ordinary girl.
But I’m not into butterflies,
I don’t do ballet twirls.

I hate wearing make-up,
No eye shadow or blush.
I don’t have time in a morning,
As I’m always in a rush.

I don’t wear fancy underwear,
Especially not a thong.
For all the girls who do out there,
I think it’s kind of wrong.

I don’t spend hours on the phone,
Just simply chatting away.
I only need to take five minutes,
On my hair every day.

My room is not spotless,
My room is not a tip.
I don’t put powder on my nose,
I don’t give teachers lip.

I don’t go after every boy,
That I come across.
I don’t think I’m better than everyone,
Don’t think that I’m the boss.

I don’t walk with my *******,
Held high up in the air.
I don’t try to shake my bottom,
Or twirl and flick my hair.

I just want to get through,
These taunting years of school.
I don’t care what you think of me,
I don’t care if I’m not ‘cool’.

And I do have a good time,
A laugh with all my friends.
I balance it with learning,
This is my beginning, not my end.
 May 2013 Julia
Rlavr
What?
 May 2013 Julia
Rlavr
We are stuck in a volley of whats

                  Frustrated non understanding

                          But then

                                                   You laugh

                          And I feel home.
The conversation goes: 'What?' '...What?'
 May 2013 Julia
DieingEmbers
You lay there
with bed head hair
and
morning breath...

Dried drool on your lower lip

the remnants
of last nights take away

still present in your teeth

and all I can think
Is

how beautiful you are and how much I love you
 May 2013 Julia
Bruised Orange
I was a bruised orange,
That round piece of fruit that had been dropped, over and over again.  
Dropped so many times, my insides had turned to sour mash.
(It was a distasteful sort of mush.)
I hid my mushiness behind an exterior of bright orange skin.

(I thought I had fooled everyone but myself.)

He swept into my life, in backward fashion,
Giving himself away to erase the disasters of my wounds.

He was eraser crumbs.
His history, one of being casually swept from the page
As others made their revisions.

Had he not been there?  
Life would have dug a hole through my crepe paper heart,
Scraping and scratching
With its hard, unforgiving end.

But he was eraser crumbs;
He slid easily across my page.
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