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a rant a many a tear

she took her bag.
that sack of faces.
everytime she spits tears of fright,
the snakes bit .
the bronze boy in the forest calls her name
a siren of lust.
a loud gasp from the heart,
red gripping raw
a great dish they once said.
she spills the fishes out of her dress.
they flew past the eagles,
the sun wept
the boy waited for the shadow she promised.
even if she called,
he waits
and sits
on a rock in the heart of nowhere,
on a rock he dreamt
on a rock a girl etched his name.


so i said poems are written when you feel like a depressed alcholic,
or even when ya a slut who cant have her sex.
but once in a while, in times whereby you feel like the sun is in your eyes and your heart; those seldom "once in awhiles", a literary gem might just come your way.
(like santa would if you were still a kid. haha. a little cynicism to spice)

if ever you found the one you have missed once, twice , thrice...
be like the boy.

xoxo. love ya all once again. (ya all is specifically targeted at my "ya all". not all. too bad am selfish w love. haha the rest of you i wish you a good day tom though hehe)