Birthed into igniting flames of poverty, my fade was not much. Breast fed the scares of struggle, I was bound to speak language of ubiquitous freedom.
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Emotions spilled, I have fallen for the love that loved before. As contend as a guitar of love song, a hero was needed. The beginning of love story, the vision was as clear as she held a hand over her shoulder to shield the wounds of lust.
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Staring at a broken mirror, at the background I hear the genre of a love guitar, as I recognise the wrinkles of lust on my skin. Face of youth, a habitat for love tears. A swerve my feet to right and stamp it, it's a command. I feel the sweat dripping down my
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That thing, that kept wanting more of us I kept
close within my heart. Never have I taken in mind the change in
body temperature but felt the coldness being distanced with
love. All black, then I knew the feeling of mourning for love.
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In the house of mirrors, I spotted a grey hair, then came the equivalent saparateness. I never took notice, the effect lust had on youth's skin. Stained with love thoughts, the hands that took feelings to emotions, much I over looked haughtily the sound of
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