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Literature
his+mine.
i won't let you go.
someday i'll write all about you and i and pretend it was a tragic romance with a lost fairytale ending. but that wasn't how it really happened.
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i loved you in some way. i won't say you belong with me, because we both know that would be lying. even so, you don't belong with her either. don't fool yourself. i picked you because you were a lost little boy who wanted to grow up too quickly. that's what they call premature aging, don't you know? it's not your time yet. so why don't you just lie down and breathe the night sky while you can? but you were just a boy. a boy with golden hair, darkened by pitiful sins and bleac
Literature
The Things We Cannot Do
The things we cannot do...
I cannot cry
Because I don't want people
To ask me 'Why' or 'What's wrong?'
I have to smile
for fear that people
will see the emotion hidden
by secrets and lies
I cannot run
Because i am to afraid
of the future that lies in store
I have to hide
For people think I'm content now,
And those that know the truth, no longer trust me to be myself
I wish to confess, but the words won't come.
Literature
A Treasured Find
In empty moments, we open boxes
to find a universe tucked where shoes
should be.
Fancy this, me writing to you via
such a contraption. Rather disconcerting,
I must say.
These are the minutes wrought of marzipan,
where people with ink-eyes move
into the polar peaks between charm and restraint.
You are not a prisoner.
This is a mere example of our hospitality.
And instead of laces and tongues and soles,
I find letters, and language, and souls
hidden where no soiled fingers
can pry apart pages, and sully with eyes.
He's a house cat. But you're a mouse yet.
They sometimes speak of danger and risk,
but my trust is implicit; thus,
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severe stage three twitterpation.
you got it bad, Dave.
nice poem...
pip
you got it bad, Dave.
nice poem...
pip