How many hopeless romantics are scandalous murderers, or perhaps serial killers and all these seedy crimes have gone unsolved? All of them cold cases with more cases just like em being opened up faster that a jury could even convict, faster than changes even brought up not one word or Miranda rights have been uttered before 3 more have occurred.
How many innocent beautiful flowers have grown from the ground at the gardeners feet only to be plucked and torn apart like the bag of mulch that keeps the roots warm.
Loves me, loves me nots
How many more love and loves not petals will litter the ground beneath park benches and swings?
How many more 8-balls will be shaken, not stirred, from softly to vigorously for an answer?
How many more terra cards will be lain only to be flipped and to reveal……..
When the road ends and becomes a fork with a canyon between you and your path, what it comes down to is you and a leap of faith. Hoping that your feelings are true and no one can stray you from what you know to be true, so make that leap and I hope you land on solid ground, and on 2 feet.
Now we are at the climax of this poetic end, a writer will know when he is in love. We need no tarot cards, leaps of faith, 8-balls or flowers.
We use flowers to surprise the girl that we are addicted too.
We use the 8-ball to see if we should enter that writing contest or if we should eat out tonight.
We use the tarot cards to check when we are going to die and to check if we are going to be rich.
A writer not in love troubles with contracting the words to the paper. He cant even describe how the rain is falling on this ol tin roof like hammers.
A writer wrapped up in her beauty can let the words flow like a fire on the prairie. Mesmerized by her loveliness, entranced by how her body can sway to the music wanting to dance with her and have their bodies become one, moving to the dj’s rhythm.
Just desiring to get lost in her eyes and trapped in her luscious red lips.
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