Typed Music

Poems.

I suppose these are just little pieces of me, wrapped up in words.

The forgotten melodies of my mind.

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88. Not a custard cream

“if i was an object i would be a sprung board from the floor of a ballet studio"

                i’d specialise in brushing dreams above themselves

                                unravelling heartbeats

                                                and the stitching on ballet shoes

                                                                once tired

                                                                                you’d cremate me

oh

but i’d have the history of pine forests in my grain

 

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