Ages ago, I met this girl, and were I prone to writing bad poetry about the pain and struggle of separation, I’d be spitting it out by the boatload. Fortunately for you, my friends, I am cured of that sort of thing and so focus on other matters at hand:
The maintenance folks are installing a brand new faucet in my bathtub. What a wonderful world!
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Will you tell me more about this cure? You see, I met this boy … and now all of my poetry includes one or more of the following images:
+ cold blankets
+ empty arms
+ dark dark dark black things in darkness
+ exactly how many miles from here to there
+ exactly how much time until I see him again
+ dead flowers
+ the scent of him left behind
+ very dark and black darkness
+ tears drying on my face
+ really dead flowers
Send help. Even the goths have deemed me too depressing to hang with them.
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