WAR

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388
I am not nice, or subtle, or quiet.
I do not mute my soul.
I am the jagged end that people look away from.
I am fabric torn at the knee.
I am sore red among mellow blues.
I am the rumbling thunder.
I breathe fire, I talk smoke.
I am pitch black night punctuated by sharp stars.
I am the reverence of the moon, the intensity of the sun.
Do not make me seem polite.
Do not draw me with pastel.
I am Red.
Draw me with blood.

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