My apartment's finally clean, time to scribble shit.
THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Tender Friends
Seems like there’s no place to go in life,
But if we’re lucky we’ll find a place to be
Like maybe lying in a patch of grass,
Just being there with the clouds and sun,
The smell of Earth which needs her worms,
A butterfly that feels no need to worship
As it lands on the knee it feels at one with.
All the striving of dreams misses the point.
Still I wish you were here to be with me,
And share a thought of beauty, a smile,
For tender friends never miss the point.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Tender Friends
Posted by
Anonymous
at
12:24 AM
Labels: mc guimond, poem
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1 comment:
I don't get it....just kidding, I, however, refuse to believe that your apartment is clean
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