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people who rip out their favourite pages of poetry in library books
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we, the poets know
there is something spectacular
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I fear love is not meant to be known
fully -- it is meant to be savoured
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is your glass half empty or half full? the bartender asked
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summer yawned
and absence remained
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perhaps love is like art
-- an abstract distraction
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maybe if I had loved her more she wouldn't have murdered the sun
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my mother is 5'3'' and 155lbs
of imperfect woman
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my seventh grade music teacher
had large breasts
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we were 10 years old
when I told him his uncle the bishop
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earth is enfolding like petals of growing roses
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my cousin's parents are out of town this week
so he's staying with me
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she falls asleep on nietzsche;
her hand rested on the shoulder of dove wings
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we are all men of masked madness
punching in and out of timeclocks
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she is the pulse of sun
beating in me with warmth
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on my way to work this morning
I stopped at chapters bookstore.
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this morning I rose from sleep
with the echo of her smile
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corporations have perfected the art of assisting suicides
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she's alone as a widow sitting on a porch
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I once believed I would live
but as these cloudy days stretch shorter
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these bricks have been laid
yet they, too, will crumble
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I don't play with words,
or fuck around with syntax
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forget sweet talk and flowers
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we met on a monday
in midtown manhattan
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I was working at the fitting room
located in the heart of ladies' fashion
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she comes to me from perfect skies-- immaculately bare while I am layered
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nothing thrives
in the silence of air
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there was a feeling of flesh against steel
and my seven year old frame, shaking
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the birth of words
are not found in logic
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