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 Apr 2017 Sarah Boon
 Apr 2017 Sarah Boon
Pants have yellow ice in trucks of hills. I'm in a purple suitcase and the trees are poking my ****. Goosebumps aren't feather dusters anymore. Foot warts in my hair and yarn on my nose. Water is dribbling from my power line and my calf is aching. My shoes are covers in slime and my toes are twitching. The flag stands there in front of us and we are all slapping our dogs. The sun poked our cheeks as the as the lights went flapping away. Pots went eating a way leaving the chairs bird less. gas had loud books on their foreheads and was talking in a cheetah. Cows ate my blanket of clocks. Bags killed my sauce pick. Mills have ***** roofs.
I apologize if you were looking for actually poetry. This is a writing excersize I did on a road trip when I was about 8.
 Apr 2017 Sarah Boon
Luke Kerzich
I follow someone else's tragedy
And I'm willing to mend it
But the emptiness reflected
Was as lonesome as the one before.

I seem to have forgotten
We are dead.

— The End —