America My writing is from the heart. I spend little time planning my poems. A thought pops into my head and I give it freedom.
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I'm sorry. It hurts when you treat me like this. I was wrong. Will you wait for me? I love you. I'm afraid. It's lonely. I can't do this anymore. You're so beautiful. Goodbye. *I miss you.
I hope that one day, we can overcome our fears of speaking our minds.
I taught myself to waltz so I could dance with the skeletons in your closet. It's a gruesome sight as we spin through the silence. Silence broken only by whispers of your secrets divulged to me. And I learned that I was dancing with the devil.
It is my theory that we are all connected. From the thread around your finger to the ribbon on her wrist and the rope tightened on my neck. Every action has a consequence, because when you pull on the string; *something unravels.
I met you that hot summer day On the side of the road, Selling produce in the middle of nowhere: With that strawberry blonde hair And those adorable freckles.
You were my strawberry boy. I always loved the taste but hated the fruit. But I would but five thousand Just to see you again.