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Rated: E · Poetry · None · #2331097
I am not a writer; I'm just bored. I am becoming more and more bored as the days go on.
When will you see the birds in the air?
If I profess my love, will she rise from her despair?
Who will be the witness to your crime at the fair?
How can I confess if she is not there?
What does it mean to be but a snare?
Shall I walk with her to show that I care?




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