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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required "The road to write is paved with good intensives." — attr. too know won The mourning it always do come sum-how where they're voices brake the piece into peaces— we was all of us promised a wright to no the truth butt the heir we breathe has went, spent, mined out, beyond the vane/vain gnus proscribed like a wether we cannot sea—the err of it and yeti. Running from the lie's the money stayed, still He, galled, gulled, lead in, shuttered—should of ironed the flood on thin eyes, thin i's they swept the e-rupture under the rug of the volcano lent, bent, the routes of it t'all drowned the ceiling every moan and mown knot one sole voice cud of broke the rein of time it-shelf. The children play was born into wore there bodies the pour of plague sum-body never said nothing—the reign felled on the pane/pain like whether emigrate, immigrate or stay, him and her and them bear/bare the same old hole they're writes they're breastless rites to exst was pored over the alter and the sole of it, the soul of it, they burned the maid in the mourning stair. And now, , we scroll and sprawl and drool through the mourning of taht sum-how the "famine" is a cantent, the "worn" is a wra, the "wand" is a wrte end sum-one's always loosing there wright two exist, here, hear, their too nations, to flags, two many wounds the power they powder the flood they could of ironed where we're board-stiff wore down, the fowl foul heir of sit, the steal they steel— the raised cities rased, razed— interesting, someone didn't run Grammarly, rite.
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