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Who'd have thought
In some short weeks
A hundred poems fell
A hundred now
Of love and tears
A hundred of my hells.
Who'd have thought
In some short weeks
You'd stay to read them all
And as you read
With me right now
You won't let yourself fall.
My poems may be virtuous
Or crude, and cruel, obscene
My poems may be etched in blood
Or sculpted by our hands
But through all these one hundred
I have shared with you my hope
My love, my caring, devotion
And you take what you must.
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