I found this rough draft of a poem in last year's composition book.
Made of stone
Sheathed in silk
Atop stiletto heels.
Not a sign of feeling escapes
Nor a breath of joy or despair.
A picture of perfect elegance
Made hard by those feelings now bricked up:
Life's unfailing plagues
Of sorrow and triumph and pain and elation.
Some force within me longs
To ruffle the feathers,
To mar the silken surface.
To tap the hardened stone
And see the honey flow forth.
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