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Jan 29
Call me what you will.
I know what I am.
She says I’m cute,
while she builds with sand.

Red haired angel I’ll never smell.
Intimate relation to be withheld.

On her knees but not low,
Her hands cup that beige snow.
If I could spill my insides out,
I could paint it all red and yellow.

She deals in truth,
And sells lies.
But she did want me
Between her thighs.

Oh what a pleasure to pleasure.
I’d give anything to set her beauty off.
If only things were different,
Without this novel cough.

Might happen, I’m stupid.
What buffoon could swoon in.
She’s perched a top.
Between dragons breath and stairs.

To wish it was a fool.
To believe it was a fool.

I have more of any noun than sense.
Written by
Clay Face  21/M/A trip
(21/M/A trip)   
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