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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41. She thought

When she was seven years old
She thought that dying would be like
Standing at the bottom of a well shaft
And that living was like
Kite-running
And windmill-surfing
And water-mirrors
And strangling skipping ropes

When she was seven years old
She couldn’t see the difference between
Swimming and drowning
And flying and falling

And so she hung herself from her skipping rope
At the bottom of a well shaft
Drowning
And falling ever down

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