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Her Unmade Bed

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Devastation hits,
And she paints chaos on the canvas of her life.
Clothes strewn across the floor,
Plates piled high on a table,
Her unmade bed at the centre of it all,
Her life is a masterpiece,
In pieces all over her bedroom floor.
Even if she lays her head,
And sleeps,
Is it rest if her mind finds no refuge,
If her thoughts jump around,
Seeking a port in this storm?
Is this not art?
This pain,
These bodily stains,
Humanity’s most authentic crafts,
They emanate,
The artist cannot help herself,
Even when she creates
A mess.

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