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Dillon Mills Poem
A creative mix of oil and blood,
for it only matters whats under the hood.
And the smell of gas,
and the smell is good.
Eight pistons tunring,
the rich fuel burning.
The need to race,
the urge thats churning.
The stretch of open road,
to only go fast, I make an ode.
The acceleration that stops,
the blood that once flowed.
Driving is not a sin,
it just shows where I've been.
Copyright © Dillon Mills | Year Posted 2007
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Details |
Dillon Mills Poem
I plug in everyday.
I strum 6 strings over and over.
The music I make makes me happy again.
But only as long as I strum,
can I enjoy the music made
From my little wood guitar.
Copyright © Dillon Mills | Year Posted 2007
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