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Literature Text
I am lost in a fog.
And the branches white and grey.
One would think
That there isn’t much to say.
OH, but there is.
My world is blanketed
And I have far
Too much fire wood.
I am tired of sleeping
And peeping
And waiting for leaps.
The space is hot,
But am I getting too old
For this?
I am lost in a fog,
And the land is warm.You must think I don’t have much to say.
I do, you just
Don’t listen.
And the branches white and grey.
One would think
That there isn’t much to say.
OH, but there is.
My world is blanketed
And I have far
Too much fire wood.
I am tired of sleeping
And peeping
And waiting for leaps.
The space is hot,
But am I getting too old
For this?
I am lost in a fog,
And the land is warm.You must think I don’t have much to say.
I do, you just
Don’t listen.
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Written 2 years ago this coming March (3-30-11), I wrote this poem in frustration with everything around me as if I were asleep.
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