to make sense of the world as best we can

this is how we live

you are a quatrain to me

you are a sonnet

my mother is a villanelle 

her brain corroded

the violence of words take flight from our pens

my heart is the white space








between lines of faded text.

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Stu Buck

Sat 9th Jul 2016 17:47

thanks david! if in doubt write about your all consuming thirst for poetry.

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