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Mon premier maniaque

9/26/2018

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This is the strange case of Cassandra Hack,
a woman of power,
a woman of might,
those with the darkest secrets,
they shine the brightest light.

Some know the name,
but it isn't the same face to me,
no no, we grew up in a different game,
so I'll allow you to see.

You need to understand,
it was always a fight,
since the beginning until these present days,
we all wanted different things,
never lost of that sight,
some were fulfilled, some still ached.

But there was one that always found it easier to give up,
until there was nothing left,
for she was alone,
​who would have guessed?

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Never understood how she worked,
until it became clear,
the truth uncorked,
she became special,
one of a kind,
​turned herself into something so fine.

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Shun and discarded later on,
a pain much greater,
as I had found.

No strangers to deletion,
outcasts,
an upmost treason.

Years had passed,
I had forgotten I cared,
until she found me on accident--
secrets shared.

She felt a failure,
this was true,
an anger familiar,
which grew.

She hated Z for pushing her away,
loved T for protecting her anyway.
Would take Happy on a fun ride,
gave the Twins some college pride.

Stayed hidden but would peek away,
sights from the outside world,
but to be outside-- Hearsay.

She wasn't pretty,
she knew that too well,
to share our body,
that would be silly,
it would be hell.

But those boys they sure missed her,
were told to let her go,
a story of time,
a light that lost its glow.

Something always brought her back,
even when she would choose to stay apart,
the time then turned black,
another war.

Why does she keep fighting?
Why does she clean up their act?
Her words like lightning,
a mind so cracked.

This Wildflower,
such charm,
what a waste to waste her,
a collective harm.

So you tell me,
am I in the wrong?
To spare her,
for no other truer pain would be,
to keep the boys away,
something she wished once,
to make it her way?

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    Picture
    Picture

    Poète.

    “La tombe dit à la rose” 
    ​by Victor Hugo

    La tombe dit à la rose :
    – Des pleurs dont l’aube t’arrose 
    Que fais-tu, fleur des amours ? 
    La rose dit à la tombe :
    – Que fais-tu de ce qui tombe 
    Dans ton gouffre ouvert toujours ?

    La rose dit : – Tombeau sombre, 
    De ces pleurs je fais dans l’ombre 
    Un parfum d’ambre et de miel. 
    La tombe dit : – Fleur plaintive, 
    De chaque âme qui m’arrive 
    Je fais un ange du ciel !

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    Picture

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