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Generally, geriatric geezers generate gilded gifted guides, but rarely are the methods told and lesser even applied
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Subtextual gestures gestate grisly grevience when articulation flees in favor of fanciful ortheopy.
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To what end is purposed this meeting?
For now the hour quick is fleeting,
My head aches as though given absinthe.
To whit thine wit is absent.
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Mechanics meddle with metal, but there's no medal for their mettle
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Poem 1
It’s a small ember inside
& it’s keeping hope alive
But tender tinder renders a flame
and it’s back where it started again
a flame that burns in the heart of the hearth
Beautiful colors that don’t know where to start
Flaming tongues lick the walls
and the walls feel nothing at all
The flames grow higher into a fire
a blaze ablaze and now the walls notice
So the walls build up and the hearth closes
it’s needs deprived the blaze begins to die
The dull roar of the fire subsides
Until it’s a small emblem inside
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The prose of pros may be apropos, but I prefer the mania of amateurs
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