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A martyr, dead by his flesh,
with pink-red jawline,
and rotten lips,
has peculiar pull for me tonight,
so I make my way closer,
as he sizzles that snake like tongue,
and with my soft mouth, I make love to his,
bite away part to reveal few teeth,
just enough to pull them out,
underneath, I find the letter long searched,
but oh,
disappointed at reveal, as letter states:
what you search cannot be found, my friend
A small rumor that whispers a promise,
delivered by summer wind,
of womans touch seen,
in a glimpse of a dream,
can make a poor mans soul,
keep going for months
Felix Hackberry Dec 2021
Isn't it ironic,
I, try to size up shoe,
when we knew,
our love, never felt true,
lost at the sea of ours,
I look at sirens,
wishing, I was wise too,
seeing now, why is you
Felix Hackberry Dec 2021
Write
1000 poems
and publish
none
Felix Hackberry Dec 2021
C
It starts with C,
we all know the abc,
then comes delta,
we forget all,
spike me, **** me, penetrate me,
and now nobody knows abc,
it's new letters, new syllables,
and I thought I go mad,
on poetry, philosophy, but no,
world has lost it's mind,
now,
we all go down together,
battling, mostly each other,
what has happened to the world,
to you, to me?
we used to know ourselves,
our sensibility, on shelves
will you be my friend?
Felix Hackberry Nov 2021
would world tear apart,
if lonely got their part,
of love,
would it be a sin,
if shy found their kin,
for once
Felix Hackberry Nov 2021
it's not about how happy life you live,
when you're dead and gone,
six feet under, all alone,
see, happiness don't mean much,
it's solely things you leave behind,
chirping any meaning at all,
to those who stick around few more years,
sure happiness makes the journey easier,
nevertheless it won't build pyramids,
make poor anymore rich,
or nothing, out of the ordinary
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