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Poetry DyingIs it something we do or is it something we think? Do we exist on this plane or that? Much like the thoughts of a mere child. Here one day and gone the next. What was I smoking/on/drinking/doing when
I wrote this? The world may never know. Yet another poem composed due to the
extreme weirdness that is my teacher, Ms. Smith. Curious to know about her?
Head on over to the monlogues there is an interesting rant located there. Please Leave a Review
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