somewhere deep under
there’s a poet in me...
Just when I thought
Under all these smiles are lies...
Joy
happy, content...
Why does my mind play tricks on me
Room is still...
We wait with them here,
in a spacious home...
Years ago....
Words would traffic jam within...
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A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes |
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Being in love is like playing with fire you always get burned |
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Must keep my eyes open, can't fall asleep yet, I'm widely wake, but for how long? |