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paint stains
Poetry

Art Class

I walk out of the classroom where the faces are kept,

and where the paint stains the tables like they were always there.

And I immediately feel the frigid breeze on my skin, slowly making its way through the roots of my hair.

I hear the faint soft sound of my tunes, complemented completely by the sound of the trees.

And he walks behind me now, stalking my walk, as I turn the corner.

And see him smile, the pearly whites showing off to my braced ones, and his dark hair brushes over his eyes, covering his glance toward my way.

And I know, for sure, what happiness is.

Also Check: Poem On Feeling

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by Miss Younas

Strive to change the world with your writing.

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