my hair needs brushing I think distastefully as
I look at the strings. a brush
doesn’t do much, the wind tears away
the elusive strands and my third eye tingles.

The sun shines away any thought of
imperfection when you arrive.  As soon as
I’m gone again my hair feels dirty.

November ’05


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This blog is the collection of my poetry and prose, in chronological order from most recent to oldest.

Constructive critique is actively encouraged!

I am usually singing words as well as writing them, and make lots of other art. You can find me & my other art at any of the below links. x

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All content on this blog © Rebecca Tilley, 2003-present

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