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My feet are always cold.
My heart as pure as gold
My face a pleasure to behold
I was very often told.
Then I started to grow old.
My feet remained cold
My heart harden like gold
My face, my eyes
Grey and sad,
Because of the difficult years I've had.
With isolation I am now glad,
For company annoys me and
I then become infuriatingly mad.
The one I thought I loved
Depresses me and causes me
Pain.
Now I have a hole in my soul,
A dream of going back to the place
Where nothing I had, but to me
That's a lot better than anywhere
I've ever lived or anyone
I could never love, all because of defeat.
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Writer Profile
Ruth Garnes
Ruth Andrews Garnes: born in Belize the second of six children. She moved to New York City at age eighteen. After studying nursing she worked as an emergency room nurse. Currently resides with her husband and seven children in the Houston Texas area. Having always had a heart for hurting children her writings are to give voice to them.
When all is forgotten or ignored, expressive words linger or get heard. It is important for the hurt and wounded to have a voice, for this purpose, I write.
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