descriptive

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3:46 a.m.  on a post-rain Kansas Monday.  I try to wash away  the sleepiness from my insomnia laden eyes, pick a fresh sheet of paper spread clean it almost sheens,
Dear you, The cigarettes in your eyes seemed to glisten like that of a holy ambience. They were translucent angelic fumes laced with desire's poison.
Bubbling vastness Reaching, bursting, from solidity Gassing off the rigid, excited to be free Swindling the once contained energy Nearly blasphemy— It was a miracle to witness thee
Picture a lunch table full of melancholy twelve year olds.   She was one of them. She smiled and joked with friends at school, wearing stained and torn clothing,   but eating a hot lunch all the same.
What I hate is how I don't love you but how I don't hate you, And I don't even like you yet I don't despise you But you ruined me I was never a masterpiece to begin with
Today as I went about my Saturday ritual of housekeeping, I found my lost love for the laundry and the orange peel therein And again at midday for the sanitized scent of the dishwasher
Colors so happy Floating together at times clasping hands  Changing colors as if to blush Dancing and swirling in, out, and around Mounds of fabric, bands and clamps Create the music for the Tie Die dance.
Light shady hair That lays softly and carressing his lonely thoughts Habits that glorfies the flaws in his stormy eyes
There are hands we hold in times of need Hands we clap in times of glee
At times, hands cannot express more than the heart. However, at others, the hands become merely tools of passion used on a lover. The hands are oft accompanied by other tools
Backseat dreaming, Hands curled lazily into my lap, Sunglasses resting on my nose, Headphones on at half blast, as PR News blares so loud I’m sure the car next to us can hear it. There’s no foot room.
The left arm is the pain and hurt that’s been suffered all this time, while the right is a shrine to the family that’s there no matter what.
As I sit back and think about this thing call life I always ask myself. "Is there an answer to every question"? You ever asked a question to someone but they would always tell you that they have no clue or idea?
As I sit back and think about this thing call life I always ask myself. "Is there an answer to every question"? You ever asked a question to someone but they would always tell you that they have no clue or idea?
She stood, hair lapping in the frigid night air, at the coast. The rocky barrier separated the gravel road from a smooth, black and lapping bay. It was pitch black, like thick coffee with grinds that managed to escape into the brew. Lapping.
Fiery red was the rock It was boiling, scorching, blistering sizzling, burning, searing rock. It is going to explode To blast through the earth with incredible power, strength, and force.   And yet  
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A landscape for madman in my mind and the genius in yours. Kept short and trim and orderly, most days.
The little girl you see over there, Yes, the one with the vibrant, shiny, red hair. She's not much different from you and I Everyday she goes home and cry. A year ago, just like this day,
My hands are for writing, For painting, For greeting, For holding, For waving, For creating and destroying. With a fist they can hurt, With a poke or a tickle they can tease,
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