My first night out in a longgggg time.
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a farmers’ market haul. decided to pick up some soup ingredients that i was missing and got caught up with more, as usual. i’m most excited about the prickly pears!
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What happens to the girls no one gets angry for?
What started out as a poem might just turn into a prose. For words to rhyme, you need them in abundance. Something i lack these days. All my words now are spent in explaining, mending, bargaining, and accepting. I have none to spare for myself nor for my poems. They seem like a distant dream, infact everything does.
Some time ago I could've weaved you a tale of how it went wrong, how the milk spoilt. My bittern disappointments steeped into the curdle, making every step feel like a hurdle.
Poems seem like a hedonist's afternoon escape nowadays. Poverty has no place in it. Be it of money, heart, or soul. The normal man's days are spent arguing with life, bargaining with fate, and being angry at the one trying.
This is me trying.
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Sunrise, sunset,
Sunrise, sunset,
Swiftly fly the years,
One season following another,
Laden with happiness and tears
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