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May 2014
These poems are flower crowns.
Sometimes beautiful and full of color,
The words soft and crushed,
Others small and scratchy, made from
The clover blossoms growing with the weeds.
Some nights my words are wilted from wear,
Like an overused excuse, an old tale,
Because I've said these words before.
Ophelia
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Ophelia
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     IvyWithRed, Ophelia, ohmyink, AJ, --- and 1 other
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