Fri, 06/10/2016 - 16:44 -- gwatson

I'm not going to say your gut is endless,

because there is a bottom.

Sometimes you stomach is full,

or empty it depends on where I go.

A "picky eater" is a name,

I would never give you.

Between the snacks I buy and my notebooks,

you eat them all.

I think it's weird not having you,

Tag along everywhere I go.

When stuffed your seams pop and tear,

your dull fangs drop like flies

My brand new laptop of which you held,

Smashed on the floor.

That's when I knew I need another one,

A brand new bookbag.

This poem is about: 


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