There is a girl in a yellow dress sitting on a bridge.

Her toes are dipping up and down in the water

and she is writing poetry in a spiral-bound notebook.

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She isn’t any good at poetry,

but she doesn’t know that.

She writes of love and loss

and the dark oblivion of life,

of angst and anger

and how everyone strives to be different

in a world where no one is.

Nothing that hasn’t been used before.

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She isn’t any good at poetry.

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I don’t suppose I am either.