Dominic Alapat
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My baby, and my books. This is the town with the house with the woman with the fire inside. She arranges her mornings with needles and flowers, becoming quieter. Everyday wishing there is more to life than this great lone pine. They do not talk to her anymore, nor do they visit her with apple pies. The future is a gray seagull, they say, the sun has gone to another.
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April 17, 2017. With her dark black face. Was deep in conversation. In the stench and the grime. When she caught me. She shouted out an unearthly sound. And my heart froze. Until she went back to her argument. Slap slap she started beating the walls. Slap slap slap slap. Till my train arrived. And hurtled me home. The above poem is from my first book. April 7, 2017. The heart in turmoil. Y is like a question mark. See it looks so sweet. See so calm and peaceful. March 26, 2017. And all that variety.PARSED CONTENT
The site had the following in the homepage, "With her dark black face." I noticed that the web site stated " In the stench and the grime." They also stated " She shouted out an unearthly sound. Until she went back to her argument. Slap slap she started beating the walls. The above poem is from my first book. Y is like a question mark. See it looks so sweet. See so calm and peaceful."ANALYZE MORE BUSINESSES
Master every aspect of your life. Why women wear make up? September 3, 2016. There are so many things women have to face in their daily lives. Make up, fashion, men and most important of all food! So stay tuned for tips and tricks to conquer womanhood.
Last thing I remember,. And slowly, I drift. I wake up with head ache. Tubes in every hole possible. Painful tears begin to roll. Memory sea begin to flow. I saw it coming yet I stood in the way,. It was as bright as the northern star on a darker night,. My eyes never lost its gaze at the clock,.
Oι απορίες για τα μη και δε. Oι απορίες για τα μη και δε. Oι απορίες για τα μη και δε. 8230;για τις κοινές ρωγμές μας. Or companionship or; endearment.
The words can barely skim the page. They dance, snowflakes spinning. Flurries of phrases, tossed by breezes. Pile into drifts of manuscripts. Lost, wandering in white out. Each word spoken, whipped away. From frozen lips, barely speaking. Sound torn by gale forces. But are buried in deepest white. I take up the white out.