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"shayma" poems
Dear potential lover                  When you fall in love with me Make sure to love the way,                             my face dulls on gloomy days;                       like a rose in autumn.                                       And fall for my muddy brown eyes,               that take you to worlds with distant skies;     eyes like fields of adventure.                            My stretch marks, scattered simultaneously, like strokes of a brush set wild and free;         their colour of clouds with silver lining.        Fall for my unpainted nails, the plain sort     stubby, and cut almost too short;                     nails made for playing in the soil.                       Love my tummy, un-flat and not so lean,       the kind you don’t see in magazines;               a tummy with gentle hills.                                               Admire the way I look,                                       lost, snuggled up in a book;                               the way I stare at the trees,                                 my fine hair playing with the breeze;               love my excessive day-dreaming                       and my serenity on afternoon walks.               Dear potential lover: Love all of me;           My perfections                           and my imperfections               and my perfect imperfections.                    Shayma.                                                  .
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Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:27 AM UTC
Dear Potential Lover
Dear potential lover                  When you fall in love with me Make sure to love the way,                             my face dulls on gloomy days;                       like a rose in autumn.                                       And fall for my muddy brown eyes,               that take you to worlds with distant skies;     eyes like fields of adventure.                            My stretch marks, scattered simultaneously, like strokes of a brush set wild and free;         their colour of clouds with silver lining.        Fall for my unpainted nails, the plain sort     stubby, and cut almost too short;                     nails made for playing in the soil.                       Love my tummy, un-flat and not so lean,       the kind you don’t see in magazines;               a tummy with gentle hills.                                               Admire the way I look,                                       lost, snuggled up in a book;                               the way I stare at the trees,                                 my fine hair playing with the breeze;               love my excessive day-dreaming                       and my serenity on afternoon walks.               Dear potential lover: Love all of me;           My perfections                           and my imperfections               and my perfect imperfections.                    Shayma.                                                  .
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