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She is pure. I will defile her. I will force my thought I will offer my woes I will share my joys and she will take them oberiantly. she will suffer my ink I will exploit all she has to offer so
She was a small child of seven, loved learning and writting A smart child for being in second grade She wrote about Autumn while her parents were fighting She thought she had it made
When I write a poem, I feel a thrill that makes my heart-speed-up like a herd of kindergarteners out to recess galloping across the mulch over to the monkeybars belly-sliding screaming
I am a wallfower around, but never really noticed. To others it seems like I have my life together, but actually I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. To my friends I'm the quiet one who's along for the ride.
Here's a little story of the girl who thought she'd never make it. Growing up in a world that told her all she has to do is fake it. Seeing the world in black and white isn't right, and she knew it,
Oh My love, my love TIs morning of a new day With sunbeams bursting through the horizon And wild seagulls wishing to play Oh Mi Amore, Mi Amore The clouds grow dim when you're away
Come on girl- Let it whirl! Get some rhymin'; FInd your timing! You don't have to race to find the right pace. Don't fight- Just WRITE! O.K. it's coming along-