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ns Jan 2015
Oh, how cruel a fate it is,
To gain hope from void assumptions,
For it all amounts to horse ****,
But nonetheless it curdles ones imaginations.
Guile created from ones own mind.
A goal, impossible to attain yet continue to find.
If love, beith abstraction illusion.
Hope the manifestation of delirium.
Oh, high empryn. What love of pure blessedness can your high ruler endow me with,
But literary devices which are in my usage,
Is simply the context of garbage.


ab
A poem written by my cousin.
Mk le Kaole Feb 2018
Oh! Surely it, my sight jesters....
Love to life and life to love, I'm but hurt to look aback.
What more, than a heart that hurts to love..
Ache so chaste. Is it love, my ******* of firsts..
Paint for me green..... Maybe just from lust's way away I could sway.

Love at first, freaky at last.
Who beith the tricked, when rust trickles down the mast?
Sight between teats, a treat to even mow up the mist.
Half moon's curve lips, smile of the goddess Ana.
And yet a heart uncertain of whom to trust.
Is it that warmth you beget amongst a throng of plausible would be's...
Paint for me green..... For trickery is a match not only for those who hold on to fins.

A punctured lung and a leaking heart.
What love causes not even bullets can elate.
Down to up and up to low I fathom scars from love's stunts.
A broken heart? Into a thousand pieces it injures to none.
Is it red that intoxicates?
Is it that red is rare for us to blush at it.
Well paint for me green... I long to more than but stare.

Were we really a match from heaven sewn...?
Is it you that was once my galactical embraided?
You that I thought the world for.
And anything out of nothing I would have obligingly done for you.
How sights seen tend to trick..
How your being forever me pricked.
Paint for me green.... This that threatens to unmake us beings...
Stu Harley Mar 2019
all
beith fair
the
quit beauty of
her
maple brown hair
and
candy green eyes
while
she
walketh
through
the
nottingham square

— The End —