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Your greatest poem.
Its okay if its not perfect yet,
You have time to make edits.

Don't mind the typos and awkward bits,
The "flaws" of it all is what makes it you.

It is to be dedicated to you and you only.
**** what others want,
This isn't about them.

This poem is constantly evolving.
It doesn't have to make sense,
As long as its truly yours.
She walked up and asked,
Will you dance with me?

I looked all around just to see
Who it was.
There's no way,
it couldn't possibly be.

Could it? could it really be me?

And just like that,
Suddenly, 
We were dancing.

So close, surely we were floating, 
Because I couldn't feel my feet.

I couldn't hear the music, only the beat.

The pound, pound, pounding of my heart!

Her and me dancing,
Surely we were floating.

I looked down to see,
Instead I saw her,
looking up at me.

We were dancing! 

Yes, we were.

We were dancing.
Junior High School Dance,
Ladies choice, and she chose me!
First time I ever danced, I can feel it like it was yesterday.
Funny how memories work sometimes.
Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child,
always falling
into wild
fantasies and
Mad Tea Parties.

Always stranded
in haunted forests
for endless days—
Tangled in
vines of hurt—
Covered in cuts
and open wounds.
Running away
from your own
shadows as the
raven echoes—

Drowning in oceans
of fragmented emotions.
So injured,
you can’t speak
what is spoken.
Astray in crowded
places where loud
souls breathe as
your voice fades.

Oh Clumsy,
Clumsy Child—
Where will you go?
Trapped beyond
The Hidden Hills,
lost your way.
Will you ever
find your home—
Or forever
wander along
the forest roads?
If you stop,
You will find,
Who I am,
Deep inside.
Whatever it is,
Is a mystery,
Because nobody knows,
Not even me.
My tongue is tied,
And even if I speak,
No one ever listens,
But I can't shut my big beak.
It's hard to stay quiet,
It's hard to shut up,
When your mind is bursting,
For I cannot help,
But erupt.
Shut off the device: phone, tv, speaker
Stop the scrolling, binging, and rotting
Notice how small the world gets when the only problems are at your door
At which point it is your choice whether you answer the knocking

Stressors that were not meant for us shrivel
Less distractions to impede our walk
Less comments to knock us down/leave us crippled
Less idols to build our foundation on, in place of the rock

If given thought, each clip attaches us evermore to the past
For that was when they were made
By the time they reach our eyes to see
Their time has passed so hastily
And fleeting time wasn't made to last

So sit in a room and stare at the walls
That for a moment hold you in confinement
To be present where you are, in your own little world
Is peaceful however you define it
Ah, the fleeting irony.
The scent of that sweet fragrance,
Fragile as the mist in the morning sun.

In whose lens do we view this world,
When naught have begun to wake?

Weeping in this night of solity, I seek
The pupil of another.
And so wakes the dream. Whence I see the blazen wheel of fortune
Landing upon-
Nothing at all.
I have been rather elated lately, and it came as quite a surprise that this poem ended up so sad.
Oh well, how's your day going?
How many women here
have been impregnated
by Elon Musk? looking for hands

He plans to repopulate the planet
single handedly - well, not handed
exactly - you know what I mean.

In Australia, great swaths of Texas,
and of course Mar-a-Lago, he’s a serial offender,
because his ***** is legal tender.

Factoid: you might catch a disease,
he’s sleeping with everyone north of Belize
and several of them, frankly, look ******.

Of course, you’d have to listen to him talk. shivers
Unless you say, “Hey, can we do this without conversation?”
That’s when you’d slip on your sleep mask, and, well, you know.
But what would you be thinking about?
.
.
FUN! by KiNG MALA [E]
BLOODONTHETIMBS by Bren Joy  [E]
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 03/01/25:
Factoid = a brief and usually unimportant or trivial fact.

These pieces I write are like essays, I have to take a point of view—that doesn’t mean I’m RIGHT, I could probably write the other side of these points just as well.
I judge Musk a *****-rich-man-dog. If that sounds harsh, it isn’t, he seems to care for these (14?) children - I don’t think he’s an Epstein, P-Diddy, Weinstein or Cosby. It’s funny me, maybe because I’m a woman - if you are rich, get a mistress, get 10! You don’t have to drug and ****—but that’s more about power, ya? If a woman wants CrAzY ammounts of ***, it's easier.
In France, it’s perfectly acceptible, in most circles, to have mistrisses - very few couples in France get married - they have civil, financial agreements instead called ‘Civil Solidarity Pacts (PACS)’. So I was just making fun of Mr. Musk because republicans are such moral posers. (aka ***** loving Trump).
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