I remember strolling down a hill once,
In my dreams probably.
You could see the clouds kind of loosing their ways at that longitude.
I have never been to hills.
But oh my! These glasses of fluidic compassions and vacant impositions can get you to places.
There’s a wooden chair at the corner…brown patches everywhere,
I dream my dreams from there…well not from there; actually through there.
“Poets are lonely creatures… They feed through the pulses of this quiescent beat…don’t get public man.”
I ain’t gonna do that.
I am gonna hang my poems from the twigs of my dilettante tree…
For an old pal, a cycling lad or the oblivion of the stalworths…
love this…
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Thank you..☺
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Poets are lonely creatures… They feed through the pulses of this quiescent beat…don’t get public man.“
I ain’t gonna do that.
I am gonna hang my poems from the twigs of my dilettante tree… ❤️❤️👌🏼👌🏼👌🏼
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Thak you…means a lot me….☺☺
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😘✨
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😊😊
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Nice!!… It somewhat breaks the stereotype that a person is a poet only if he is lonely and sad.
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Yeah kind of…☺
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Profoundly written. 📝♥
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Thank you….☺
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Amazing 😍
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Thanks a lot…
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Wonderful. I love the line: “I dream my dreams from there…well not from there; actually through there. ” That’s how I often feel 😀
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Thank you….☺☺
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Splendid 💛💛💛
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Thank you..
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