He wants
the broken girl
from beneath the rubble;
the one that cries each time she begs
for more.
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My favorite poetic form, cinquain. I haven't written one in ages. This one seems to have written itself.
I snarl, I hiss: How can ignorance be compared to bliss?
ReplyDeleteI spark, I fizz for the lady who knows what time it is.
I cheer, I rave for the virtue I'm too late to save
The sadder-but-wiser girl for me.
Sells more records if you can dance to it, but I know the sentiment well.
Yes, it seems that you do.
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