Eve’s Picasso.

Plastic girls in their plastic world Making men fume with their plastic chord Tis this fakery that binds them all Strangling and struggling In their plastic core Once upon a time, tis cliché When all but her innocence remained She found Picasso’s brush as it lay This – the beginning of a fuss and a…

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Poetry Is Not Dead.

As I lay my head to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Poetry is not dead. They said. Why should I waste my time then? To dive deep into my sea-of-thoughts And row my words to the shore of human intellect. Adding up long winded nonsense of grammatical word play. To what…

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