what she knew

She knew she was an artist

Who never lent a brush

A stroke.

A poet

Without writings 

Thoughts which never 


Happiness or misery 

For each held 

The same response

A denial for life

A loathing for living

She did not care that much

For emotion through which 

She came

Or emotion which others 


She knew she was an artist

For that you can be sure

But in the end 

With life and death

Emotions are all the same

For in the end 

For all she knew 

She did not know 

Her name. 


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