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poetry is the story, the song, of life itself...
what is mine
a process out of a saturday morning bed
under blue windows
seems
shattered rain (a short-ish story)
and in my dreams
words run dry
the same old story
toss and turn in yr honor
sometimes fires don't go out
it all came unglued
never enough, not enough, & never ending
that photograph that haunts me
such a dizzy dance
velvet damage
some say the view is crazy
