by Annalise McCourt-Hall aged 13

She was
The moon
In a sky full of stars
In a universe,
Of planets

She was,
The sun
The one thing
Everyone needed
But no one really wanted.

She was beauty
Carved into a delicate rose
Layered with petals
Stained with red

She was everything
She could have been
And yet
You still played her like the harmonica
Your mother gave you
For your thirteenth birthday.

The Poetry Zone

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