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by Jemia de Blondeville
A myriad of multi-coloured butterflies,
Nestled in my hair...
When I met you
It was like tasting lemon for the first time...
Golden are the flecks in the iris of your eyes
A deep forest green lit with beautiful fireflies...
and to which sin do I have to blame,
for being forced into tendering...
by Poet on the Piano
I'd forgotten what it's like to tumble
unceremoniously to the ground, arms tied...
What we are born in them as identities
are never as shameful as...
A writer not only writes what the writer feels but the writer can also feel what the writer writes
Being in love is like playing with fire you always get burned
Must keep my eyes open, can't fall asleep yet, I'm widely wake, but for how long?