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my feet don’t hit the pavement,

and i don’t curl my hair.

i brew chamomile, look in the mirror,

stare

these lines on my face, a sense of peace

these grays in my hair.

when beauty is pain

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and pain is money,

and in the land of milk and honey

you grit your teeth and bare-

age is a privelege

age is safety

age is freedom from fear.

and pretty leaves you bleeding

and time is fleeting

so i leave my pretty there.