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1. Is Justin Timberlake becoming the next Michael Jackson? I don't know if he's as iconic as Michael Jackson. But I'd say he's the artist that's most similar to Michael today.
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1. Choose your own porn name: Nikki Quickie
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I am writing this in this way because I have not written since spring
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I love you, t’hy’la, simply and logically,
because I know of no other way to do so.
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"Certain things, they should stay the way they are. You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them
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April— long fingers of grass
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your insomnia has consumed me.
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the person i’d die for is already dead.
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I think of God as more of a blacksmith than a genie.
by tinuelena
26 lines, 3 comments,
on Mar 29 2:49 AM
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the persistence of surrealism for salvador dalí
by tinuelena
25 lines, 4 comments,
on Feb 27 1:13 AM
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The clouds enshroud my night in blackened cold
I'm stretched from tundra to savanna grave
by tinuelena
15 lines, 7 comments,
on Feb 27 12:04 AM
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gretchen lost herself in the forest and grew into a tree--
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the wind whispers to you in furious ways, ominous notes, like a dusty violin
by tinuelena
30 lines, 2 comments,
on Feb 26 9:05 PM. In war
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the wind whispers to you in furious ways,
ominous notes, like a dusty violin
by tinuelena
35 lines, 2 comments,
on Feb 26 8:36 PM. In war
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“love should end with hope.” —kate, a knight’s tale
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i am glowing with a fierce litany of snow and sun
by tinuelena
17 lines, 2 comments,
on Jan 20 12:54 AM
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“and isn’t faith believing
all power can’t be seen?”
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“how about not equating death with stopping”
--alanis morisette, 'thank you'
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the stars have heard my confession;
my pen, the ink, fresh paper,
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a boomerang moon slices across northern dusk,
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you plunged your delicate fingers into cool mud and separated my secrets from that deep soil;
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his whispers are an echo, stillborn on the edges of january snowflakes—
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the tide is like percussion
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"The biggest stars look at me with your eyes." --Pablo Neruda, Here I Love You
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poetry will never be an elixir
plumbed from salt licks,
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your family donned black and stepped high, schutzstaffel
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we always played enya in the hollows of those nights
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bowed over near-dead branches and closed flowers,
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