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Poetry

The quiet is deafening

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The quiet is deafening,

When all is laid down,

Every piece of me,

What parts must I keep?

What must be removed?

Who told me all I know?

Being me is so simple,

Yet they made it sound so hard.

Of all the things they’d wish I’d be,

All those things I never was.

In becoming,

I lose them.

When I lose them,

I got me.

And I was asked,

Who am I?

I say, I am…

Nothing definitive or defining,

Cos I am a million different things,

Changing, growing, I’m not static.

I keep evolving,

And I keep returning.

So, I am

Zeenat

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