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Do you believe in your worth

when someone picks you up

from side walks and alleys

and dungeons of guilt?

Is there a way to steer clear

of the singing mermen

with their glistening chests

undoubtedly sprinkled with

laughter and gold?

What age have you reached

where you see and feel

only the froth of the beer

not the rush to your head

even if you’re still an early twenty?

What other words exist

to describe a fallen bird

with a clipped wing and a bleeding eye

and a passion for song?