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I Shouldn't Have Write a Poem About You

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Vivid memories of that foggy afternoon,

I heard a cry from the sky,

it ain’t a sound-

more like a noise of fuss;

trouble is what it does.

Gloomy weather does not matter,

withering flowers in the month of July

smelled like roses of May

that time I started to compose a line.

Metaphors I’ve never used,

became part of my prose.

Mornings ain’t that cold anymore--

more like a harsh winter.

Dusk that I loved the most,

felt like haunted fall

when flashbacks starts

and its you, whom I can think of.

Tearing of a piece from my collection

rhymes do not rhymed anymore.

Every count is out of number,

every word does not make a sound,

like how a CD player who was discarded,

physical body does exist

but is just empty shell of trash.


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