poetry critical

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a walk through deep hurt becomes
a tapestry of my own weaving -
the needle, freeing
the roses, the horses, the princes, the vines
to bloom;
to fruit their heels and climb tall bruises.
another day to own.

4 Oct 10

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Yes, well, that's life.

Better luck next time.
 — unknown

so mean and rude. glad I'm not married to you.
 — unknown

yes, well, your idea of "marriage" isn't worth a shit.

and i'm very happy not being married to any of you of shamsters.

yours rudely,

 — unknown

Yeah, I suppose every dog gets its day. (or is it "bitch" here. not sure)
 — unknown