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“God, I am not a poem!” He says. Oh, but you are.
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You met my rage with one of your own
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I have never been brave,
That’s why when you told me
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I don’t like running over animals
Even if already dead
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When you look out of the window
Of a moving car or train,
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He shuffles now, he does not walk anymore.
Step, step, slow, step.
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When all is.
Will Dust actually turn to dust and Ashes to fire
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I love him after, through mixed up morning
Blues, and squandered sweet nothings of bed.
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What say you now, you who have shed no blood?
But in clever rhyme or epic verse,
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I am a bubble
Floating high in the sky
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Oh Lord, So many people need hope.
It is a shining beacon of light,
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This is the last poem I have written,
The rest are mere collections of words,
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I've seen you, you are beautiful.
Don't wrap yourself in layers
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17 Years of Institutional learning of exams and degrees
And dreams of being a writer
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Drift into Silver Dreams
Poet’s daughter lost
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Baby Burco is a boiler that we use up in the kitchen
He’s a bubbling, brewing, moaning, hissing thing.
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Emptiness, like a black hole sucking, pulling into oblivion. .
Feelings, obsolete. Needed not. Only grief, sadness used now.
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Oh pretty little Puddle Duck
Sometimes you’re such a fuddle duck
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You said to me, “Look at my love, is it not great?”
And I looked, but could not see to feel,
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The clock he mocks me, he passes me by,
Seconds, minutes, hours, days.
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No more will I see child, gentle dying of the sun,
Let me go deep, though far is the light,
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Look past my eyes people, what do you see?
What do you find when you look at me?
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I hear the sound of distant drums,
Over there, over there,
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I am proud to be lefthanded!
Although I cannot use
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I have a good friend called Alex
Who likes hitting boys with big mallets
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You told me that something invading your body
something inside your head
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Blame me
I make things worse,
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Before I lived I had not sinned
Nor felt the burn of sun
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Two armies wait in the heat of the day
For soon is the time to leap in the fray,
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Ah look at me go I'm on fire!!
Yes! Come on my son!
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Who are we without our friends?
Who are we without the ones who ring just to talk,
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Of all the things I am not yet,
There are no things that I regret,
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