Topic: Peace, lad. | |
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I write about the winter ways
with no foresight or thought; and haunt away what bitter rays of hope lay to be bought. Around the streets, beneath the signs a howl stings the air. And even though you didn't know - although I know it isn't fair - I have to give direction, darling; sweetness for the masses. Yes, my doll, you're such a scarred thing; the flesh, a death that passes. But winter winds can sing their sin; I will write about their lies. And bleed so sweet within the thin accompaniment of highs. An autumn death would would be the best. Your February aches me; but I write rhymes that mesmerize and rest just as I should be. Erase the son, erase the sin, the cycle starts again. I wanted more to emphasize the sorrow in the spin. That, Michael, we aren't where we live, but where we empathize. |
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some truly wonderful lines here...
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Thanks. *smile*
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Beautiful as usual, really hard to say much more with your writing plastic...but as always, a pleasure to read.
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Thanks, man.
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You have a true & unique talent....
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*hug*
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I hate using the same trite comments over and over "fantastic, beautiful, fabulous, awesome, great, nice."
So imagine me applauding instead. And then giving a standing ovation. ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() |
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