I want them to write a poem
about the
sparkles in my hair.
I want them to sing a ballad
about the
seven freckles on my face.
I want them to create a painting
about the
fire in my soul.
They – the great artists of the
century;
the minds; the genius; the heart
of Earth.
But I’ll
forever be
‘the girl who loves their work
while they make art for someone
else.’
V.
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