Paris

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My Paris begins with  Those early days  As a conscious flâneur; I recall the couple  On the Metro,   When I was still innocent  Of its labyrinthine complexities;  
I lost my heart in Paris,  To one I hardly know,  Around a lovely terrace,  Again there I must go.  I haven't long to find it, my very life is chased,
Blinked my eyes as sun rise,  Morning breeze as cold as ice. A hot choco for a sore throat, so soft it makes me float.    A picturesque scenery, so beauteous it makes me teary. 
Skipping ahead he avoids cracks as not to break my mother's back - head bent low upon his task, his concern dear.   My hand yearns for the warmth of his, to have him safely by my side -
A Parisian storm, romantic aromas, wine, cool rain, intoxicating. An interesting place, paradise It can be anywhere.   Strolling through Paris; streets are filled with the aroma
  I could not stop myself from taking flight, And eventually, I got lost in her light. I prayed that no one would notice my desperate glances,
I first started really writing poetry in ninth grade.  They had a poetry slam at my school, and I had some friends who were going so I checked it out.  It was so beautiful, the words they said and how they were said.
There’s a question I want to ask. It’s a small question, and it’s certainly not important. It’s petty, irrelevant.
Paris I wish to see, oh how I long to visit that city. I want to kiss under the Eiffel tower, sniff a fragrant French flower, and walk down the quaint little streets. Let's take a bite out of a fresh macaron,
Guns may fire Bombs may drop But we stand with you Côté à côté.   Blood has been spilled Your people have been killed
I'd like to think my footsteps echo off the white stone bridge but such tranquil sounds overpowered destroyed by the dull roar of the arriving crowd what stone should gleam instead is pale
I wake to photography, I love the outdoors, the scenery, The nature located only two feet away... But when I open the door, I don't find myself at home, I find myself in a place I could only ever dream of,
I n e e d to. j’ai besoin d’ return to the
I'm doing better She says she hears it In the sound of my voice And I wonder if she hears You in there too   The worst thing you can say
  Almost every nightI dream of taking your handand bringing you tosuch fabulous faraway places.
  I’ve been to Paris... California. I’ve seen Paul McCartney live twice. I have cried both times. I’ve walked right into my dad’s jokes and right into opportunities and right into poles.
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