I am a stranger to myself with mysterious motives, yearning for freedom and danger.
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Sharing poems & thoughts, one redacted word at a time.
I am a stranger to myself with mysterious motives, yearning for freedom and danger.
You were in love with love, but not me.
Another night the snow falling, the gentle flakes banking on the street. The sky, a place of tender winter.
Peaceful. Just one word. It was exactly how I felt.
I relish cheerful talk, but that's nothing to a good poem.
For a few moments she was left alone, these moments of solitude, free from eyes upon her, felt good.
The trouble was the yearning in wanderlust.
Youth lingered, then walked away, slow and quiet no sign of life.
The great emptiness the loss of a memory. Could anyone ease the pain?
How brave I think you are to be in love.