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The art of fits and starts, and bits
Of letters you write but can't submit:
"The teetotaling drag and the drunk, fumbling hag
Laugh at a thought had by both (though it be sad),
'Now, who'd-a thunk that
They'd go on living like that!'"
Living like that…
A Sunday in the park, alone:
A fate, so etched in marble stone.
Lo-lauda-lu-lay, what a beautiful day!
But I've nothing to say...
I've nothing to say,
Besides it's alright to feel low,
And it is my rite to say so,
And I will let it be known,
And I'll moan and I'll groan,
"I don't wanna be alone!"
I'm well aware I'm here 'n you're there,
Yet words all seem like wastes of air.
O say can you see what's become of me,
Facing life so vacantly, like a loose grouping of fleas:
Ever living between
(The careful careen).
This is our fate and our dole:
Life is the fight to stay whole.
But the battle is fun
And more easily won
While loving someone…
Oh, silly me! No, it didn't have to be that way!
Lo, tenderfeet, all your prayers won't keep the heat at bay!
Go back and hear every word that you have feared to say!
No park, nor lea, can repeat the feelings we have made!
I had a dream I was drowning in a stream,
And then I scend:
This is not the end...