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1)
How many writers, asked a friend
(with a cheeky twinkle in his eye)
does it take to change a light bulb?

That's a dim-wit's question, I said
You should ask:
How many times will a writer
change the same light bulb?



2)
My non-writer friend
(his twinkle now dull, then dead)
scratched his head
and to enlighten him I shed some  light
on the subject:
A writer edits and changes
their work many times
to get it perfect;
and so the same thing happens
when you make a writer change the bulb


No, my friend did not appreciate
the illumination
above poem is a variation on that line of joke: "How many --------- does it take to change a light bulb?" - this one as applied to writers
I've never heard a piano
say a single
word

Though it always seems
to tell the
truth
The best love story is the one between the chain smoker and the asthmatic.
For if he hadn't changed for her, She'd have died for him.
Their Love ran through their veins.
So they saw past each others skin.
And it was seemingly fantastic
the love story
between the Chain Smoker and the Asthmatic.
She was perfect in his hazy eyes
And She Loved Him like crazy.
This left them only partially sane.
As their burning love ran through their veins.
He loved her to Death.
And so she loved him back to life
Their Love still flowed through their veins even after they used a knife.
All they bled was their blood.
And soon were both embalmed with only Love.
They killed each other softly but died swiftly
One went Below
And one above.
Not one smoke or earthly temptation.
Not even Death's dreadful separation
Could **** their undying love.


© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
I read a story about two lovers, one died in the others arms.
I can't even fathom.
But I imagine, It's something like when your heart broke while I held it in my hands.
No one Understands how I can compare the two.
But You're dead now, or at least a part of you.
Is six feet under the ground.
I listen to you talking
But the part of you i fell for never makes a sound.
Yet, people are offended I think I can relate to a story so tragic.
They just don't get it...we used to be magic.
no one understands, to me this is death.
Living without you, get's harder with each breath.
I know, you didn't mean any harm.
But this is the end.
And the saddest part is I didn't get to die in your arms.


© copyrighted Nicole Ann Osborn
I opened my eyes
And looked up at the rain,
And it dripped in my head
And flowed into my brain,
And all that I hear as I lie in my bed
Is the slishity-slosh of the rain in my head.

I step very softly,
I walk very slow,
I can't do a handstand--
I might overflow,
So pardon the wild crazy thing I just said--
I'm just not the same since there's rain in my head.
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