More (A Poem)
So she took her pen and she wrote,
Of things past, of things so old,
Of things to last, of things untold,
Out of her yearning soul,
She wrote of her needs, her poor old soul,
More and more,
Just some more!
So she took her heart and she spilled it out,
Of things locked up, of things hidden,
Of things burning inside, of things forbidden,
Or were they now?
The truth has to be told,
No more for vanity shall we let ourselves be sold,
For the selfish needs of man crying,
Just some more!
Then she opened her eyes and took it all in,
The marvellous truth so cleverly hidden,
To see it all but in a new light,
To see that her life was all a fight,
For her life she so held on to,
To her saviour so, she holds it out to,
For now she cries to give herself out,
More and more,
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