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With tainted brush and broken lens we see ourselves as distortions. Hallowed faces with grisly make-up, distorted distended dioramas of the half true self. Not to pity the pretty, not to spend favor on thy self, definitely not to look upon the mirror with the constant light of approval. We take a notch down to slowly tighten nooses round jagged edge. Forever burning in a circus hell bent on derision and mockery. Laugh gaff at the silly clown of unfortunate unimportance, lowered self wrecked self, pale in comparisons. Cutters and destroyers of image and notion of better we. Self-delude, self-harm, why not love self. Why not the joy at what we have become; growing into ourselves to appreciate in value. Poor people in shattered houses begging all to look away. If only we could give warmth instead of scattering the hate. But love is a weapon, a battlefield, fully loaded ammo ready, tanks of empathy. If sunny winds could wrap around the kindred spirits and weep along with them. All the tears ringed out and ready for destiny. Love latte for the tired ones that need a place to play.

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