The well-hated Child


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Why do you keep letting me gather my words from the ground like I've been only exhaling emptiness? As if being a well-hated child who blabbers the truth which you loathe. I imagine my words flying up the sky and reaching your deepest core but instead, I'm swamped in your empty thinking like a push from the deepest oceans to the ugly surface of the earth.

Why?

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