Fourty One

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She knew she'd be okay because she was a poet, and she had a way with words, because she herself could stitch together words that made all too much sense, because she loved her mind, not for the things it says, but for the way it says it, if she was to take anything away from her pain, it was that, and she knew other people just may find it ridiculous or unimportant or trivial, but her heart speaking overcame that in a way, it was beautiful, and it always will be, because she was a poet, and she had a way with words.

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