“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
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(Bone pile)
My lips are sealed with The caulk of deaf ears. Born for this. Lessons to be learned as chapters Turned Over, like how to read our bodies ...
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1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
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I have served between eight and twenty-five thousand meals for my family, I make coffee for them more than once per day, equatin...
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Lies About Love by D.H. Lawrence (1885-1930) We are all liars, because the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow, wherea...