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Post by cookiep55 on Jul 8, 2007 16:50:25 GMT -5
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Post by moronaboutstuff on Jul 26, 2008 19:20:06 GMT -5
I like to write poetry that makes zero sense because it sometimes makes a point. Nothing there inside my head. I like to type something that rhymes with color, but there's nothing under the sun, that reflects the knocked knee'd thought that I can relate to toast just for no reason I can find. It's not the vision but it's not the hinges that set the doors open slightly ajar, windswept and moved just a tiny inch. The squeaking, to be offset by... I just don't know, but I could, I could ...
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