You look like the finished draft,
Practiced and primed,
Almost unattainable,
Yet still close enough to touch.
You're the twitching smile
Hiding puns, hilarity, and punk rock
Behind a veneer of dignity
That is hardly fake.
You appear as polished as glass,
Sharp and strong
But without any of the sudden shatters.
To my eyes,
You are a willow tree,
As poetic and flexible as any known
While you grow tall and sturdy
Up towards the heavens.
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