Cloe Part 8 Poem by chris bowen, a.k.a to wit

just like that i brake
the fake on, fate gone
we wont be long god
she saw a shot of the oncoming headlights and screamed
must be me, what did she see?
the tree's, the bushe's, parts of seat cushion's flying all over
we know.
it died.the try to be a winner is sitting here, spinner
if its leaner to beam her, i might as well pen her a note
'yo, though i choke i know your beauty, we cutie?
thats the duty and im dead, your next, your blow to the head to severe
where? im here.thats the thought thats near.if we fear it, we will come, dadgum, how long have i been a bum?