I have a new lover. His name is William Blake. I hated him three years ago. Despised him really. I could care less about his fucking tiger. But he called me the other night. He said hi. He said that he missed me. I said that I would give him another chance.
William Blake wrote a poem for me. He wrote it in brown pen and doodled the corners with naked bodies. He asked if I had ever written a essay as a poem. I have only written an essay as a drama piece. He asked what it was about. I told him: Hunter S. Thompson and my great-grandfather. I asked what his poetic essay was about. He said: Ezekiel and writer's block.
William Blake left his pen in my room. It's a BIC. It has red ink. He chews on the cap.
William Blake wrote a poem for me. He wrote it in brown pen and doodled the corners with naked bodies. He asked if I had ever written a essay as a poem. I have only written an essay as a drama piece. He asked what it was about. I told him: Hunter S. Thompson and my great-grandfather. I asked what his poetic essay was about. He said: Ezekiel and writer's block.
William Blake left his pen in my room. It's a BIC. It has red ink. He chews on the cap.
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I think I have one too. Her name is Autumn Weather and she leaves a trail of golden dragonflies in her wake. She encourages the trees to change into their colourful ball dresses and party along with her. In the mornings, her breath is crisp and cool, and in the evenings we often watch the stars together. Im so in love.
chuck