To JAStar4 from Deviant Art: You've selected some works of mine and
turned them into your favorites. While I'm not blushing about my public
image or getting crispy under the sun, at least you have these original favorites
to suit your literary destiny for writing. Thank you very much!
Happy Birthday Card to Mom, 7/17/2016
Feel my
honey before gobbling this slice.
You’re high noon returning what you are.
I can blow into that roof and be mixed.
We can’t drink from the cups over wood.
In fact, these miracles spread over dessert.
Sounds from the wedding ring are gone.
There’s our palms under commotion, too.
What’s the weight of repetition later?
A kind of nut is swinging in my mouth, also.
Ignore flight over notes, the years in my head!
Velocity sinks in from an athlete’s pie.
The sight isn’t in me, yet.
Horses above clicks make those days good.
Is that picture for a ray?
Dad’s a Muslim’s drink is keeping, right me.
Your heart is the action for one lazy boy.
Why not name your wrist after that action?
I can’t touch the bars we change from.
We’re treading history for past counting.
Tired fingers become sad clues of your magic playing.
Ageing gold, floating blood, students are thrashed.
Mother’s she follows into herself.
Dad gives you a hand, but keeps legs on.
Mommy is the time I have no theory for.
You’re rope without a bullet.
You’re high noon returning what you are.
I can blow into that roof and be mixed.
We can’t drink from the cups over wood.
In fact, these miracles spread over dessert.
Sounds from the wedding ring are gone.
There’s our palms under commotion, too.
What’s the weight of repetition later?
A kind of nut is swinging in my mouth, also.
Ignore flight over notes, the years in my head!
Velocity sinks in from an athlete’s pie.
The sight isn’t in me, yet.
Horses above clicks make those days good.
Is that picture for a ray?
Dad’s a Muslim’s drink is keeping, right me.
Your heart is the action for one lazy boy.
Why not name your wrist after that action?
I can’t touch the bars we change from.
We’re treading history for past counting.
Tired fingers become sad clues of your magic playing.
Ageing gold, floating blood, students are thrashed.
Mother’s she follows into herself.
Dad gives you a hand, but keeps legs on.
Mommy is the time I have no theory for.
You’re rope without a bullet.
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