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Keli Mar 2021
I'm not very picky, unless faced with:
      Icky, sticky, pumpkin!

                Oh! How I glower!
                When faced with that sour,
                  Slimy, stringy, slush!

                          So I groan,
                                And I moan,
                                      Then I run.

  My arms flailing!
       My feet, slap, slap, slapping,
                          The cold, hard, floor.

                                         'Till a hand grasps my shoulder,
                                            And I'm dragged to the table..

                          Then, I'm pushed into a chair,
                                   And a spoons pushed into my hand,
                                      And that foul mush, is pushed into the spoon.

               That is forced down, down, down,
                        My gagging, unwilling, throat.
Reminiscing my childhood...
Keli Jan 2021
I am a poet,
I create my own wings
And weave a world,
While hurtling
towards the ground.
Mercutio inspired me.
With his jests.
Keli Jan 2021
She died today. In my arms.

— The End —