many writes poetry now,
many writes about life and they wi
were not alive but when they hears
they run and leave their shoes beh
many writes about love,

Why are they dressed in red and wh
A black long fur facing towards th
A gold button parting the blood an
Misery of their own existence, and
To please; they are slow nature of

I stumble, I stand, I sit and I
Every-time i think about your soft
And the smirks on your face
Whenever you are bored, scared or
Sometimes i glaze through the glas

Only if i
Could have
Never
Learned a way
To arouse

You don’t need
Grades
To do this
Everyone does it
And it

The
Only
Normal
Thing
On

I have read them enough to fill me
With tenderness; to sigh a relief
On my soul with heavenly mind,
Because now i could sight them far
As they would lease pleasure to me

O, ye the bright sky summon thee
Before the crimson light forsake n
With the numb cloud morosely still
So does the teardrop– warmish will
Lightening’ a little or with a pi

Everything
Hurts
Immediately you
Decided
To

I have spread the sheet to my bed
Now that there is no more experien
Now there is no more poetry, and n
There is nothing new to write abou
Under the sun or far away from bey