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Deem this uncanny kind of love
Missing-you-too-much-
For-my-own-
Good
Kind of love

Missed tragets
Shot
Stupid Cupidity
Arrows released
Shot
Getting shot with shots of
Voka
Or the
******-hang-over-hard-cruel
Kind of liquor
Be the kind-kind of
Drunk

Be my
Be mine
Valentine

Be my crazy love
Be my ever -everending-too-good-to-be-sober kind of
Love

To fly safe
Don't fly at all
Your
Wing-weight ratio to
Aclochol
Is far too much

Don't fall for me
The way I fall for you
My love
Cupid missed and I'm missing you non-sober like, if I attempt to fly I fall for you still.

I don't actually drink but there you go, best analogy I could think of.
Hoping you enjoy. Or not.
(Whatever suites your fancy)
Target practice, aiming high
shoot these stones and watch them fly
see them hit and watch them fall
dropping bottles, one and all.

Line them neatly in a row
dented plastic, all will go
crashing quickly to the ground
with this new skill that I have found.

Knock them over, stack them up
once again, I just can't stop
precision like you've never seen
to rival Katniss Everdeen.

She had an arrow and a bow,
I begged my dad but he said no
cause with an aim as true as mine
he thinks I'd end up doing time!

So pebbles, sticks and bits of string,
who knew the fun these things could bring?
the satsisfaction is quite grand
to fell these items with my hands.

I love to see my Dad impressed
because he is the very best
but even with his throwing arm
he cannot hit the neighbours barn!

and so I laugh and love to tease
while sitting here beneath the trees
he tries to make an angry face
but laughter cracks it with quick pace.

So I call him my " Bottle Boy"
shout "line them up" just to annoy
and shoot those bottles to the ground
another favourite pastime found.
Sometimes simple is fun too. Although I will admit to rolling my eyes when Dad first suggested it!
He is the painter,
painting images of
desperate desire
and vistas of love
and secret knowledge,
upon her skin.

Each patient and
skillful brushstroke,
weaves obscure
and cryptic symbols
in subtle, vibrant
tones upon the
supple texture of
her curving form.

She is a leather bound
notebook,
swelling with promise
of verses and poems
yet to be birthed.

He is the quill,
his ink flowing
abundantly,
spilling fertile words...

filling her every page.






-by Mercurychyld
Copyrights
Imagination
A gift, such a sensual
Wonderful toy!
Bazooka that veruka
Wage war on your warts
Charge the canons against corns 
And ills of other sorts

Conscript regiments of Rennies
Antacid to supress indigestion 
Establish naval fleets  
Of fisherman friends sweets 
To banish nasal congestion

smear your chest with Vick
To ensure victory is quick
And if headaches ensue
Aspirin will win and subdue

If your enemy is constipation
Let  senna be your friend 
And if your throat is sore
Let strepsils make swift amends 

Show viruses they're not  welcome
Fight back with all your might
Give germs no easy terms
And soon you'll feel alright!
I've been thinking about world war one starting as today, my birthday its one Hundred years since the war was declared. Then I was helping my son with his veruka and this came to mind x
I eat so much fruit
These days. I've become
Addicted.

I sometimes go outside just
To taste the fresh breeze. Summer
Is almost over;  

Soon there'll be a threat of
Snow on the air at night.
So swiftly they go, the winter-

Less months. I will wake up
In the dark. Ice crystals on my
Bedroom

Window. I can make a print
Of my palm in them every
Morning, then.

Taste pure winter. Taste
Her on my fingers. My coldest
Lover.
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