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A Letter To Lindelwa

My dearest Lindelwa,
Your name rings with familiarity over and over in my head,
Every day you take form, and become a reality I cannot shake off, or really comprehend,
First it was your beautiful big brown eyes, with lashes long and curly; no one can question your roots,
And then your lips followed, full and distinct, outlined with God`s very own rich lip liner, like a garden of Eden fruit,

As I stand in awe of how beautiful your face is turning out, your body magically seeps into the canvass and completes the picture,
Your tiny hands raised to your mouth, each with five perfect fingers
Your skin feels soft to the touch, as rare as the African silk
Just like mummy`s, it is a radiant brown that compliments your eyes, a true daughter of the soil.
Your tiny feet will one day walk on this very soil, leading you to a destiny of love and beautiful dreams fulfilled because of your forefather`s toil.
Do not worry your pretty little head, mummy may not have nail polish expertise, but if you ever want them painted I will learn, because for you I will be a student of life until I no longer break bread with the living.

The world waits for you to take your place,
Grandma waits on your arrival,
She wants to hold you in her arms and speak blessings into your life,
And tell you stories about mummy and your uncle`s childhood,
How he spoke baby gibberish and brought a smile to all of our faces, just like you will someday.

Oh your uncle, how he waits for you,
He dreams of carrying you in his arms, lifting you high up and promising to protect you in everyway he can,
He wants to teach you soccer,
Like your mummy you will love watching 22 men kick around a ball with so much skill and technique,
You too will be initiated into the Plaatjie family gang of soccer; it will be your first love.

Grandpa wants you to take your time getting here,
I reckon he is not ready to lose mummy as his little girl yet, he hopes it will be in a future not so near,
But I know secretly he cannot wait for you to bring joy and laughter into his heart,
Like your uncle and I did

And your daddy?
Well baby that is another reason why you will be named Lindelwa,
I wait on him with patience and gladness in my heart, for I only want the best for you.

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Three Corn Patches

(words & music by leiber - stoller)
I said three corn patches about four cotton fields away
I said three corn patches about four cotton fields away
Lives the prettiest girl in the whole darn u.s.a.
I said a
Shes got big brown eyes and long black wavy hair, mmm
Shes got big brown eyes and long black wavy hair
Shes so beautiful, people it dont seem fair
Well Ive been to chicago, been to new orleans
Yes, Ive been to chicago, been to new orleans
But Id rather see my baby workin in her old blue jeans
I said three corn patches
About four cotton fields away
I said three corn patches
About four cotton fields away
Lives the prettiest girl in the whole darn u.s.a.
I said a
She keeps a big bull dog out in the yard all night
She keeps a big bull dog out in the yard all night
And it barks like a bear oh, but he dont bite
Yeah,
I said three corn patches
About four cotton fields away
I said three corn patches
About four cotton fields away
Lives the prettiest girl in the whole darn u.s.a.
I said a
Gimme three, gimme four
I said three, well four

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A Tale of Elsinore

A little child stood thinking, sorrowfully and ill at ease,
In a forest beneath the branches of the tall pine trees -
And his big brown eyes with tears seemed dim,
While one soft arm rested on a huge dog close by him.

And only four summers had passed o'er his baby head,
And, poor little child, his twin brother was dead,
Who had died but a few days before,
And now he must play alone, for he'd see him no more.

And for many generations 'tis said for a truth
That the eldest bairn of the Cronberg family died early in youth,
Owing to a curse that pursued them for many a day,
Because the Cronberg chief had carried a lovely maiden away,

That belonged, 'tis said, to the bold Viking chief,
And her aged mother could find no relief;
And she cursed the Cronberg family in accents wild,
For the loss of her darling, beautiful child.

So at last the little child crept back to its home,
And entered the silent nursery alone,
Where he knew since morning his twin brother had lain,
But, alas! they would never walk hand in hand again.

And, pausing breathless, he gazed into the darkened room,
And there he saw in the dark gloom
The aged Gudrun keeping her lonely watch o'er the dead,
Sad and forlorn at the head of the bed.

Then little Olaf sprang joyfully into the room,
And bounding upon the bed, not fearing the corpse in the gloom;
And crept close beside the white form,
That was wont to walk by his side night and morn.

And with his dimpled hands his brother he did stroke,
And with grief his little heart almost broke;
And he whispered in baby talk his brother's name,
But, alas! to him no answer came.

But his good old nurse let little Olaf be,
The more it was very sad to see;
But she could not check the child, nor on him frown,
And as she watched him, the tears came trickling down.

Then Olaf cried, "Oh, nursey, when will he speak again?"
And old Gudrun said, "My lamb,'tis all in vain,
He is singing sweet songs with the angels now,"
And kissed him fondly on cheek and brow.

And the same evening, Olaf wandered out on the green,
Which to him and his brother oft a playground had been;
And lying down on the messy bank, their old play place,
He fell asleep with a heavenly smile upon his face.

And as he slept if seemed to him an angel drew near,
And bending o'er him seemed to drop a tear,
And swept his closed eyes with her downy wing,
Then in whispers softly she did sing -

"Love God and be good to all, and one day
You'll meet your brother in Heaven in grand array,
On that bright and golden happy shore,
Where you and your brother shall part no more."

Then the angel kissed him and vanished away,
And Olaf started to his feet in great dismay;
Then he turned his eyes to Heaven, for his heart felt sore,
And from that day the house of Cronberg was cursed no more.

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Her Beautiful Face In My Dream

lilac lips
beige skin
morning eyes
dancing eyelashes

such a beautiful face of a woman
in my dream
i keep telling myself
she loves me

how can one accept the sad
conclusion
that she loves me
not?

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Her Beautiful Face

' HER BEAUTIFUL FACE'

The first time that he saw her it was her beautiful face,
He fell in love at first glance though he was very young
He spoke to her and found out that she was beautiful within,
A friend he had made for life with that beautiful face,
So slim and innocent the girl with the beautiful face,
She gave him three wonderful children the girl with the beautiful face,
As years went on she became the sole love of his life,
A wonderful Mother was the girl with the beautiful face,
Grandchildren were so deserved for the girl with the beautiful face,
As he took his last few breaths in life, the last thing he saw was her oh so beautiful face.

Dave Bennett

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Just but her beautiful face

Im looking at a cherubic expression,
Your eyes like two beams of light,
Penetrating to the hearts of all men,
They watch and wonder upon you,
Such great light they have not seen
It is just but your beautiful face

Your nose, the great art upon thee,
Nostrils like the caves of glory,
Leading to the uttermost places,
Places where all men long to be,
Your hairy like the faire of fine lambs,
Great camfort like the mat of a King,
All in the great chambers of your beauty,
Your skin soft like the dove,
Pure and so flawless,
All men long to caress and rub,
They look and wonder upon thee,
Its just but your beautiful face

My love your lips are so tempting,
The patterns like the rainbow in snow,
The glow like the rays of dawn,
The rare perfection so perculiar,
All men see and wonder upon thee
Its just but your beauty my love

Your hair so strong yet soft,
Very dry yet wet,
Like the grass of a winter morning,
Its waves so undefined,
Moved up by the wind of September,
They wonder and ponder upon you,
Its just but your beauty my love

Your teeth are white as snow,
Yet tasty as the early cream,
Bold and strong like the granite,
Take a look at my girlfriend,
Her lips have killed many,
Her teeth buried moreover,
Her tongue so rare but excellent,
When she opens her mouth,
The breath like the aroma of vanillia,
Her words sensible like of the wise
She is beautiful and I testify,
Its just but her beautiful face

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Emily Brontë

I saw thee, child, one summer day

I saw thee, child, one summer day
Suddenly leave thy cheerful play,
And in the green grass lowly lying
I listened to thy mournful sighing.

I knew the wish that waked that wail,
I knew the source whence sprung those tears;
You longed for fate to raise the veil
That darkened over coming years.

The anxious prayer was heard, and power
Was given me in that silent hour
To open to an infant's eye
The portals of futurity.

But, child of dust, the fragrant flowers,
The bright blue flowers and velvet sod,
Were strange conductors to the bowers
Thy daring footsteps must have trod.

I watched my time, and summer passed,
And autumn waning fleeted by,
And doleful winter nights at last
In cloudy moring clothed the sky.

And now it's come. This evening fell
Not stormily, but stilly drear;
A sound sweeps o'er thee like a knell
To banish joy and welcome care.

A fluttering blast that shakes the leaves
And whistles round the gloomy wall,
And lingering long, and thinking grieves,
For 'tis the spectre's call.

He hears me: what a sudden start
Sent the blood icy to the heart;
He wakens, and how gastly white
That face looks in the dim lamp-light.

Those tiny hands in vain essay
To brush the shadowy fiend away;
There is a horror on his brow,
An anguish in his bosom now;

A fearful anguish in his eyes,
Fixed strainedly on the vacant air;
Hoarsely bursts in long-drawn sighs,
His panting breath enchained by fear.

Poor child! if spirits such as I
Could weep o'er human misery,
A tear might flow, ay, many a tear,
To see the head that lies before,
To see the sunshine disappear;

And hear the stormy waters roar,
Breaking upon a desolate shore,
Cut off from hope in early day,
From earth and glory cut away.
But it is doomed, and Morning's light
Must image forth the scowl of night,
And childhood's flower must waste its bloom
Beneath the shadow of the tomb.

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In Search Of Metaphors And Images To Express Yourself In A Poem

it is the expression that matters most.

it is the relational flow from the writer to the reader
the bond that is created anew, just like an ordinary conversation
one fine day.

why can't poetry be simple and direct? that is the question that poetry
asks

to itself, in itself.

the poet in us can be lost because of so much demands for the absurd,
this metaphor fits, this imagery is perfect, what is it?

you do not accept the sun and the moon and the stars.
cliches of their poetry. You do not show compassion for his feelings
of being abandoned

simply because there are no images that tickle your senses.

even if he jumps with joy, you do not relate to his joys
simply because the images are bland like
burger without the black pepper.

it is enough that one bleeds, one wants a listener, one wants to open
up to the world
Like a bud turning into a flower

(oh forgive this lousy metaphor
i am not a good poet somehow at imaging
at imagining.
Am not a camera.
My eyes are clumsy at details.
And my ears are not sensitive to sound of
beautiful words. They even hide behind my head under my hair.
And there is no compulsion for high highfalutin
Ivory towers of similes from the gods and goddesses of
Literature)

Why can't poetry be just an expression? Just that. A dialogue.
This one, this monologue.

It is enough that you write from the heart.
It is enough that you are true

(oh forgive me, can i be really
true to you? Do i have to be naked and tell you that i am beautiful?
Do i have to master the art of metaphorisms
to be your poet
for the night?)

Or is it that poetry is simply our hiding place
From this world of pain?

Or our chapel for our prayers
Or our playground where we can be children again?

I am tired of squeezing my brain in the quest of the perfect metaphor.
I have read what they have written.
I pretend i like them. They sound so well.
They must be poetry. Real poetry
Those that garner plaques.
Prizes from the jury.

Honestly, I do not understand a thing. Those poems of my idols.
But I read them just the same.
Hoping that I am in and be counted as one of the stars in those
Metaphoric Heavens.I watch every meteor that drops
to the ground. Their tails.

I am not a star. I am just a pebble.
And it is enough for me.

The poem says, just write me.

Don't squeeze your brain to have metaphors
To draw the images.

Just be yourself, and for God's sake if you have something to say
Just say it.

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Sonnet # 19

Romantic thoughts of you fill my head
I see them clearly when I close my eyes
A thousand letters that join together to create
The words I love you which play daily upon my mind
Your face I see many times a day
A treasure I shan't never let it go
For you have cast a spell upon me my love
Thy timeless beauty hath bewitched my heart and soul
Your eyes be an enchantment of magical delight
That has gotten hold of me
Priceless is thy smile thou doth possess
A shinning jewel in my mind you will always be
I cannot but help write the words your memory brings
For visions of thee doth force my pen to sing

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Your Beautiful Brown Eyes

I'm looking at the sky, so peaceful, so sublime,
This peace invading my being when,
Are shinning serene to my heart,
Your beautiful brown eyes.

The way you hold me in your arms,
The way the stars are shinning,
I'm feeling the mystery of life,
Through your beautiful brown eyes.

When you say that you love me,
Being there, showing you care,
Nothing in this world doesn't matter,
Only your beautiful brown eyes.

Even the day is coming with sun shinning bright on sky,
Even night is falling with a glowing moonlight,
My sun, my moon will always be,
Your beautiful brown eyes.

Essence of life, magic of moment,
Make me feel so alive,
Amazing how much happiness shines,
In your beautiful brown eyes.

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Parameter Shortfall

165cm x 50 kg
Big brown eyes
Too big for a face
Two legs two arms
Body forty
Vital
Looking younger
Surrogate to change
Sensitive to soul growth

IE lg core
Satem parameter
Serbian version
Balkan geography turbulent
Rich diverse multitude
Heals Balkan pain shots
With Balkan ethno balm
Understanding sought

A bunch of professions
Moving beyond jobs
Lungs full of air
Fly flight nests of the sky
See beautiful people
In ugly torn faces
The sun passes them by
Milks them yellow golden ray
But the human cannot
Pass them by that way

Reach the end of travels
Perhaps survive
Be that living pearl spat out
By the Dead Sea
Every place becomes a home
A bit of spirit sealed in the places
Never left
A bit of spirit sealed in the places
Never seen
Embrace them all

Marina might find you guilty
Of laughter in the world falling apart
Even though you’ve seen
A lot of pain as well
And made to choose

Call it a call or a mission
Those two words you’re always
So suspicious about
Call it a call or a mission
Without recognition
Makes no difference at all
As long as
There’s a principle of joy
Appealing to a few
Brave enough to share a smile

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A Tribute For Nothing At All

she says i am always running away
she asks the same question about what is really the matter?

is there a problem? she asks herself such a very easy question but
which of course has remain unanswered

perhaps because she knows the answer but decides not to tell me
or perhaps i know that she knows but i prefer to have it posed in the
most beautiful face of silence

a blank canvass is itself so beautiful that sometimes the painter
upon contemplation for days decides not to put any color

because it seems to say more than what it is
and to say it flatly like the truth that it is

why i am running away? i change it to, why i am enjoying this fun of having to run away

from nothing actually
because to run away is, after all, the nature of man

obviously, the very reason why feet are put
why these feet have flexible and strong cartilages
stoic bones,
thick skin underneath to the envy of the lips
friends of rock and sands and very long trails

perhaps there are no need for reasons to explain the joys
of having to run away

from nothing at all, yes, from nothing at all
because no one is chasing you

because the shadow is always there faithful to every running away
against the sun and moon
under their guidance putting the maps of the earth

uncertain
true, exciting, endless
eternal search

for nothing at all

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Meeting Among the Mountains

The little pansies by the road have turned
Away their purple faces and their gold,
And evening has taken all the bees from the thyme,
And all the scent is shed away by the cold.

Against the hard and pale blue evening sky
The mountain's new-dropped summer snow is clear
Glistening in steadfast stillness: like transcendent
Clean pain sending on us a chill down here.

Chirst on the Cross! -- his beautiful young man's body
Has fallen dead upon the nails, and hangs
White and loose at last, with all the pain
Drawn on his mouth, eyes broken at last by his pangs.

And slowly down the mountain road, belated,
A bullock wagon comes; so I am ashamed
To gaze any more at the Christ, whom the mountain snows
Whitely confront; I wait on the grass, am lamed.

The breath of the bullock stains the hard, chill air,
The band is across its brow, and it scarcely seems
To draw the load, so still and slow it moves,
While the driver on the shaft sits crouched in dreams.

Surely about his sunburnt face is something
That vexes me with wonder. He sits so still
Here among all this silence, crouching forward,
Dreaming and letting the bullock take its will.

I stand aside on the grass to let them go;
-- And Christ, I have met his accusing eyes again,
The brown eyes black with misery and hate, that look
Full in my own, and the torment starts again.

One moment the hate leaps at me standing there,
One moment I see the stillness of agony,
Something frozen in the silence that dare not be
Loosed, one moment the darkness frightens me.

Then among the averted pansies, beneath the high
White peaks of snow, at the foot of the sunken Christ
I stand in a chill of anguish, trying to say
The joy I bought was not too highly priced.

But he has gone, motionless, hating me,
Living as the mountains do, because they are strong,
With a pale, dead Christ on the crucifix of his heart,
And breathing the frozen memory of his wrong.

Still in his nostrils the frozen breath of despair,
And heart like a cross that bears dead agony
Of naked love, clenched in his fists the shame,
And in his belly the smouldering hate of me.

And I, as I stand in the cold, averted flowers,
Feel the shame-wounds in his hands pierce through my own,
And breathe despair that turns my lungs to stone
And know the dead Christ weighing on my bone.

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Lost In Wal-Mart

So... I was in one of those Wal-mart Super Stores
Just the other day
When in the middle of the hallway
I felt someone grab my fingers tight
I looked and there she was... a little child holding
With all her might

I saw her eyes big and brown
Somehow she pulled me to the ground
Now..what was a man...big as me suppose to do
So... I said... child... Can I help you..?

As she looked at me with big brown eyes
Her beauty and sadness... almost caused a great flood
And with her voice ready to cry
She ask... If'n...I'd seen her mommy?

Now has anybody ever had their heart fallout of their soul...?
Mine did... And I couldn't help but notice
Her knees.. Shaking... Like she was at the North Pole.
Now you... and me... and everyone knows...
Children aren't to talk to strangers...
Because we've all heard... how great... and terrible those..dangers!
But she still had hold...of my fingers

Well... at that same time I felt.. heard a voice in my head
Don't move.... this is where I should.. need.. to stand
I did... But I still raised up my left hand
Because.. I didn't... know what to do?
I felt like that child... back in first grade school!

So... I spoke with my voice really loud.
I said...this child's mommy is lost... (you see)
I have always been able to see when love needed my help!
But this time... I had never known how helpless..I felt!

I said...please..someone.. call the M.O.D.
Short for Manager on Duty.
Help me... Find the mommy of this little cutie
Well in a few moments through that crowd of people
This women... M.O.D. appeared
She knelt down and said..Oh.. Oh...you're such a little dear...
Held out her hands..said sweetie come-mere

Yet.. I knew what this child was thinking... because
She now clung to me
Her arm went tight.. around my knee
And in her fist part of my jean's


I felt heard again that gentlest of a voice
I know you can you feel... her fear.....
So I want you... to just stand here....
Well I let my left hand rest gently...on her little head
I felt the trembling...and some how it cut my soul....
(because I felt those greatest of dreads)

So there we were twenty... thirty minutes... maybe a little more..
Then that voice ok look to the left
And from a hundred yards I saw her and the plant nursey room door
and heard that one's the mom....!
And even from that distance
I knew my thoughts were right
She looked like she'd seen a ghost
Face Pale.... I reconized her... pure.. It was Snow..White..
So I raised that child up to my shoulder
That had clung so tight to my knee...Shouted... Hey Lady... Over here..


I can't describe her relief... nor her tears...
But..I'll never forget them...or her...for the rest of my years...
Because as she came close... I cleary heard...Thank..You..God...!
As she fell with that child in her arms...knee's hitting the floor..
She begged for mercy... forgivness...
From the child, from God... I was'nt quite shore?

Well Ok.. I finally decided it was safe for me.. I turned to leave
And there again.. she was wrapped around my knee
This time love forced me to the ground
All the while that mommy's great tears.. rained down
I glanced briefly at the face.. of that girl women that still cried
And then I said Child... Is this your mom?
With a smile and nod... said my name is Dawnn..
She showed me a bruise on her elbow
That had been caused by her cat... his name was Heck
Then she smiled and embaced my neck

Suddenly I was there outside my heart
My own tears began to start............... well
When I was able I a-rose.. that mom started to explain
Mention husband...Iraq... two years... and a plane
In her haste had thought Grandma had
Her in her car
That she had to go... airport...late and so far
Tell her don't speed the plane will be late

I did what I was told... and ask if'n.. I... could hold Dawnn
Because she needed to call her own mom...
On the phone... Yes.. Yes... Mom I have her.. she's safe...
What..what.. The plane is late... How do you know that?
She then said mom... I need to call you back
Putting her cell phone down


She stared at me with eyes big and round
Then I smiled at Dawnn.. and put my head down
She said it's been so hard.. these last two years
And again she said, Thank You God....through some more tears
She stepped closer... and almost whisperd.. so I could barley hear
She said...I ask God to have someone he trusted
Guard my daughter until I got there
She cried and still stared

I put love and little Dawnn back on the ground
I tired to mumble something... but couldn't hardly make a sound
So I said good by to Dawn and take good care of Heck
Then that women child said thank you Clyde
And... with her free arm pert near broke my neck
She stilled cried a little... guess.. I did the same
Surprised that she knew my name
She said God Loves you u-know
And I have to go
As she backed up... she added
I'll name my first son....
After the man that can see far....
May God bless you where-ere you go... or are....


So I wrote this poem about a little girl and her mom Lost in Wal-mart.
I admit I was confussed as to why this little girl came to me and ask me to help her find her mom.But what was I to do, I could only stand there
and try to do what I felt was the correct thing.
It was easy to see that young women that came running into that
store was lost and scared. I don't claim anything but it was strange to have this little girl refuse help from so many of the other's that were there. Yet I obeyed the thoughts that kept coming into my soul. I'm not sure if it was the right thing to do. I just did what I thought came into my mind. It was like I was thinking with and unused portion of my heart, if that was possible.. the end

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Beautiful Disaster

She's got short brown hair
and big brown eyes
She's pretty amazing
Always full of surprize
She's a broken flower
She just doesn't care anymore
She screams at her father
and slams her bedroom door
She cuts her wrists at night
Wishing that God
Would take her life
But I look past all that
She's my best friend
And her broken heart
I think I can mend
There is so many tears
between us
But also so much laughter
We keep each other sane
We keep each other alive
We keep each other from taking
our own lives
I might be the Suicide Queen
The Suicide Master
But she's my favorite
Beautiful Disaster

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Beautiful Brown Eyes by Meena Mustafa

Beautiful brown eyes like myriad of stars that gleam
Telling stories of my life is now an open book it seems.
You can see the world in my eyes, there is beauty everywhere
Exotic places I have travelled is reflected in my stare.
From Dubai to Australia, my memories take me there
Longing to be in Johannesburg (Sun City) a penny I didn't spare.
The white sandy beaches (Maldives) the scorching sun and heat
Diving in the ocean it was such a lovely treat!
Then the drive to Monte Carlo and the lavish French cuisine
From Singapore to Jakarta…now it's just a dream
My eyes reflect my spirit, for adventure far afield
And deep within their depths …mysteries are revealed.

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Abused

Anger bashed and thrashed inside him
Anger tumbled out
Within the room all painted dim
His anger was a shout

His lifted hand was clenched so tight
Then unleashed upon his boy
Extinguished from the world was light
For anger was his toy

The room around them stood in fear
Silent, vexed and swayed
The room around them shed a tear
In the darkness of the day

The storm inside him had settled now
Quiet and still was he
Anger had gone and calmed his brow
Still he could not see

Blind to him was this little child
Hiding away from his fate
Scarce to him was a simple smile
In his hardened state

Around the back, beneath the house
Along the cob-webbed ground
Sitting quiet as a mouse
The little boy was found

His big brown eyes were shut so tight
To shield away the truth
There was suffering pain in his awful plight
And suffering left him bruised

His face was coloured, harmed and scared
Barely old enough to speak
To show himself he didn't dare
Instead, he cried himself to sleep

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The Twistinside

We have been sleeping with the lights on
Just about every night
Because we are afraid of what the dark might bring
I know, I know its just a childish fear
That grows and grows wild in the middle of me
Im gonna get a new tattoo
Black and stretching around my arm
Like a life that is visible and real
I know, I know its stupid and immature
I just want to give shape to the face
That twists inside both you and me
Breathing fire -- doesnt look good on a resume
Neither does anything else we do
We got to get ready for the real world
Yeah yeah we got to grow up
You know I like to die for awhile
Everyday in the afternoon
I like to let the arms of a bar
Wrap around me tight
Im just going to sprawl in the front booth
Big drink above my head
Cross eyed and smiling as I watch the world
Go twisting by
I dont want to die with you
Or live in the same dark room
I dont want to see your bloodshot eyes no more, no more
I just want to take this girl -- all curls and big brown eyes
Man I cant take the pain of wanting her, needing her
I know the secret of your soul
And I just dont want to know --
Yeah, man we got to grow up

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Terminal

Side by side sat
on a bench of terminal
Talking and laughing at
The things we have shared together.
Day after day,
Time has passed by
Our little conversations are
turning into little sweet sensation
A way that makes me to smile,
I wish that time
would stand still, and the day
will never end
with you are all that I need.

So I come back at the terminal.
To see you once again
to see those big brown eyes
That I thought
it was belonged to me.
To see those smile.
That fills the magic in the air.

Standing here at the terminal
waiting to see you once again
hoping that you will be coming back.
But the days move into years.
The leaves start to fall
and turns into yellow.
Until the flower’s bloom in spring.
I’m still here waiting
at the terminal
for one last time, one more moment
let us bring back at the past.

Our friendly get together
are my hopes that we are meant to be?
You have touched me with
the love you’re bringing
you gave me reason to smile,
you have taught me to feel
the magic of sunrise.
You are the wind that embraces me.
So, standing here at the terminal,
hoping and praying that you are by my side.

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Little Miss Magic

By: jimmy buffett
1980
For the noop
Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling
The clever little glances she gives me cant help but be appealing
She loves to ride into town with the top down
Feel that warm breeze on her gentle skin
She is my next of kin
Chorus:
I see a little more of me everyday
I catch a little more moustache turning gray
Your mother is the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Sometimes I catch her dreamin and wonder where that little mind meanders
Is she strollin along the shore or cruisin oer the broad savannah
I know someday shell learn to make up her own rhymes
Someday shes gonna learn how to fly
Oh that I wont deny
Chorus:
I catch a little more dialogue comin my way
I see those big brown eyes just start to lookin astray
Your mothers still the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Yes she loves to ride into town with the top down
Feel that warm breeze on her gentle skin
She is my next of kin
Constantly amazed by the blades of the fan on the ceiling
Those clever little looks she gives just cant help but be appealing
I know someday shell learn to make up her own rhymes
One day shes gonna learn how to fly
That I wont deny
Chorus:
I see a little more of me everyday
I feel a little more moustache turning gray
Your mothers still the only other woman for me
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Little miss magic, what you gonna be?
Little miss magic, just cant wait to see
Its raining, its pouring
Your old man is snoring

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

At The Window

Every morning, as I walk down
From my dreary lodgings, toward the town,
I see at a window, near the street,
The face of a woman, fair and sweet,
With soft brown eyes and chestnut hair,
And red lips, warm with the kisses left there.
And she stands there as long as she can see
The man who walks just ahead of me.

At night, when I come from my office down town,
There stands a woman with eyes of brown,
Smiling out through the window blind
At the man who is walking just behind.

This fellow and I resemble each other -
At least so I'm told by one and another,
(Though I think I'm the handsomer by far, of the two,)
I don't know him at all, save to 'how d'ye do, '
Or nod when I meet him. I think he's at work
In a dry-goods store as a salaried clerk.
And I am a lawyer of high renown,
Having a snug bank account and an office down town, -
Yet I feel for that fellow an envious spite,
(it had no other name, so I speak it outright.)
There were symptoms before; but it's grown I believe,
Alarmingly fast, since one cloudy eve,
When passing the little house close by the street,
I heard the patter of two little feet,
And a figure in pink fluttered down to the gate,
And a sweet voice exclaimed, 'Oh, Will, you are late!
And, darling, I've watched at the window until -
Sir, I beg pardon! I thought it was Will! '

I passed on my way, with such a strange feeling
Down in my heart. My brain seemed to be reeling;
For, as it happens, my name, too, is Will,
And that voice crying 'darling, ' sent such an odd thrill
Throughout my whole being! 'How nice it would be, '
Thought I, 'If it were in reality me
That she's watched and longed for, instead of that lout! '
(It was envy that made me use that word, no doubt,)
For he's a fine fellow, and handsome! -(ahem!)
But then it's absurd that this rare little gem
Of a woman should stand there and look out for him
Till she brings on a headache, and makes her eyes dim,
While I go to lodgings, dull, dreary and bare,
With no one to welcome me, no one to care
If I'm early of late. No soft eyes of brown
To watch when I go to, or come from the town.
This bleak, wretched, bachelor life is about
(If I may be allowed the expression) played out.
Somewhere there must be, in the wide world, I think,
Another fair woman who dresses in pink,
And I know of a cottage, for sale, just below,
And it has a French window in front and - heigho!
I wonder how long, at the longest, 'twill be
Before, coming home from the office, I'll see
A nice little woman there, watching for me.

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