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I wondered if my love for you died.
Weird, I thought I would have fought for you, I thought I would have cried.
Instead everything felt hollow.
Not having any inspiration to write, its, not loving you. Its a hard pill to swallow.

Who am I if not for you poetry.
Who am I if not for you.
the old wives
say it must be
the left hind foot
of a rabbit
shot with a silver bullet
or not shot at all
simply captured
one way or another
ideally on the grave
of a criminal
the more wicked the person
the more potent the charm
with the foot harvested
while the poor creature
is still alive
it has to be done
in a cemetery
during the night
of a full
or new moon
though others say
it should be
a friday
a rainy friday
friday the thirteenth
if the foot is to become
one of those lucky ones
My Dear Poet May 7
Maybe, all we need to do
is put our pens down
The poets painted

Maybe, all we need to do
is place our drums away
The drummers danced

Maybe, all we need to do
is lay our shoes aside
The dancers wrote

Maybe, all we need to do
is return our books back
The writers sang

Maybe, all we need to do
is keep doing what we do
The king cried
my feelings don't matter, did they ever i question?
where was your scrambled like eggs.
did you enjoy the taste? simply wanted to lay?
"oh it's no fussy!"
too often I say
i'm used to this way.
i've been cracked at the seams and tossed out in the hay
with nowhere to go except further misplaced.
but aren't we alone at the end of the day....?
that's probably why we never will stay.
so again -
i pray.  
relinquish these emotions that are blocking my way.
what the boy did.
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