If I Was Hungry I Wouldn't Tell You
The bite of the cold air is equal to the hole in my stomach.
The inside structure threatens to cave in at any moment.
Only buried determination allows me to stand.
Stand face to face against the howl of the wind.
Mocking me with each step.
But the memory of the warm sun reigns.
When a Poet Dies
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What do you do when a poet dies?
When Maya died Oh how I cried.
Who will give us the words from the other side.
A poet, a scribe, a teacher, a preacher, a...
11 years ago
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