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A slow breaking and mending
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fit for the poorest
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Pour tomber, pour courir,
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Mademoiselle
No one, to you,
do tell.
A dream,
perhaps a nightmare,
that died in your arms
much too long ago.


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Saturday, November 1, 2008
Word vomit
It's been so long since the words have fallen so freely from the top of my head to the pit of my stomach. Too often, the liberty of my broken resolutions have gotten caught in my throat..(yes, little girl, your silly rules are out to choke you now!) I blame it on this insane aspiration to make better sense!..or the rebellion simmering in my typical teenage mind; the one that'd much rather keep its artificially mysterious and mind-boggling repute, intact.

(Note the use of one of the many words for the day that did NOT show up on that Unit Test -BITTER haha!)

After all..

aren't we all a little bit scared to discover that our depth is about as contrived as sad excuses for sandcastles carved out of gravel-laiden sandboxes?

Add to that the impending doom in the very next room that you and I seem to be walking towards, for Faith's sake. In spite of all the love I claim to have for surprises and the like, I've learned one too many times, to keep my Faith solely in the Divine.

You and I..we're as human as blood and flesh can possibly get.

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