
She wears her hair up in a checkered scarf, That dyed mass framing her youthful face, The turtle neck she wears, Keeps he warm she exclaims, The nails that aren't hers pick at a stale muffin, She loves them anyway, She write poetry, More beautiful than a hawaiian sunset, With more depth than the ocean, Too much meaning for Socrates to understand, As she sits, tapping her leaopard print foot, I sit in amazement, At the unknown greatness she creates.
Three Things That Make My Friends Cool
Links To The Rest of My Site
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Death Poem
Eager Faces Poem
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