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fiction fickle.

these summer blues wont keep me warm
this passion cradles all but yours
and i regret to misinform but
nothing knows me well enough and
turning into nightingales
my love will fly away, exhaled
and i distress in such detail, but
nothing feeds the hands i touch and
waking in another life
i fix my halo with a knife
and i confess to feelings bright but
nothing wants the heart i hold and
braking into newer shoes
i'll shine on up these summer blues
and i've delayed in telling you, but
nothing is the art i muse.



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  • no-way-ap
    October 28, 2008

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    hmm.

    reminds me a lot of what i'm going through right now. will you please get out of my head you fantastic writer you.