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Can't you see the moons tears?Can't you see the moon's tears?
I was lonely my entire life. During my young childhood I was blind, and then sent to an orphanage. My parents declared that I was too much money and will be a curse. They named me Lucine because my eyes are gray and I was born at night when the full moon came out. I have black long straight hair, and my mother told me I was beautiful for everything I was. I can't explain why sending me to an orphanage and telling me I was a curse in the end ever showed I was beautiful in anyway. I never talked to anyone at the orphanage; I stayed where I was and waited till I was spoken too, like my father said many years ago when he beat me. Every day I would sit outside and watch the children play or I would draw on some paper. No one really cared about me. I am fourteen years old now and I have been in the orphanage from when I was five years old. I always wonder when someone will adopt me, but every time I was presented to a couple I was told by them "Sorry little gi
Dreams On WaterDreams on Water
I don't know how it started. I was suddenly on the boat and about to go to war. The time might be like the 18th century when the clipper ships were fucking awesome and such. So, I remember everyone was wearing coats and it was cloudy and grey, almost ready to rain. My side wore a greyish-blue coat. We were all on row boats and all the men had muskets. I had a young, orphan friend named "Jordi" which looked more like a boy than she is a girl. Her hair was a beautiful brown and so were her eyes. So, every man had his boat. Next to my boat was Captain Allison. I was a woman meaning I was the "weakling" but Captain Allison never looked at me that way, in fact I was a better shooter than most of the crew. He gave me a pistol before we went in case our rower failed to survive. Every boat had three people each. I looked at the other side; they were wearing a dull black coat with weird flat hats. They looked Russian with the fur outline and many other details to their uniform.
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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