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Sundas
Sundas
19/F ...
we could be your paint box,      whistling -                down - the faded margin of, my lined paper. from puffs of cerulean blue, to a teaspoon of burnt umber, half-stirred with a wooden spoon, we could paint a supernova                            ...go ahead passing souls glance and say: 'What clashing tones! What a mess they are bound to make.' but listen my little russet-eyes: for the grass will never be, greener on the other side, when we are every hue of green; when we are all the colours.
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Mar 30, 2021
Mar 30, 2021 at 2:39 PM UTC
painting a supernova with you
Remember the iron cage When dreaming of drifting Through the milkyway with her Sweet talking through nebula lit nights When etching promises Into the garden fence With ruby red ink Remember the way She ties you up and drains your blood And chips shards from your bones To sculpt her pens
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Mar 29, 2021
Mar 29, 2021 at 6:12 AM UTC
Reminder
My heart made a promise to myself, To gift you a love song, But it tore no holes to whisper sweet nothings from. My heart played dead in your grief, When your mother passed,   As I begged for it to strum and let the rivers gush past. My heart sensed every blunt knife, As you stabbed at my armour, I cushioned it between us, but they only grew sharper.
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Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 6:24 PM UTC
if it speaks like a rock, if it moves like a rock, if it feels like a rock, then my heart must be a rock
She is half a Hershey's kiss from the hilt of a child, The blue screen, her lampshade; the glass, her mind. 'Hey will you entertain a question, angel0f_death9: am I rather self consumed for dwelling on my selfishness in the apex of the night?'
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Mar 26, 2021
Mar 26, 2021 at 7:36 PM UTC
4am search history
To me, My words, Are my thoughts. Milk in a pan drifting, Lazily in mexican waves, On tiptoes with fingertips, Stroking the three litre line. to you my words are the time you blinked and clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes and a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind and a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift  into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second
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Oct 6, 2020
Oct 6, 2020 at 2:52 PM UTC
Fast talker