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flowers growing from seeds planted in the dirt and grime pushing through with black centers and petals of blood red pushing higher until they reach the attic of my mind harsh words water centers of black some flowers grow in the attic green leaves dried withered away where do the pretty ones go? always struggling with my fears my attic filled with tears of blood, tears that wash away self-esteem over time, through the years, the flowers grow less and less Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades Vote for this poem
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