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It is feeding time for the fragile ego again,

For the child to feel big, somehow important.


Crowned in paper gold, plastic gems, cheap glitter;

Dressed to the nines, honeyed lies slip so easily.


Award-baiting sugary sweet, what a pretty face,

Another hard time playing nice, poor thing.


A grand display of tear stains and heartstrings,

Striving to keep venom down, overfills the mouth.


Only the cold lips of lovers to contend with,

Temporal satisfaction in diluted joy in gin.


Wanting to be liked is fatal for your health,

Please let that go through that thick skull.

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Elaine Mullarkey

About the Author: Elaine Mullarkey

She/Her Wordsmith and bibliophile that does a spot of writing every now and again.

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