Poem Hunter
AR (3-2-1945 / California)


Broken hearts
With no spare parts
Broken dreams
Splitting at the seams
Broken promises
That will make us cry
I don’t want to be alone
When the tears dropp by
I have walked a crooked mile
Tip toeing mine fields all the while
How I survived this long
With all lost sense of right or wrong
It’s a wonder
I haven’t been hit by thunder
Broken toys
Making all this noise
Broken homes
A place where no one roams
Broken dishes
Thoughts so malicious
I don’t want to pick up the pieces
The results will be so vicious
I have traveled the beaten path
Absorbed more than my share of wrath
How will I carry on
What new travesties will I spawn
It’s no mystery
That I’m the king of botchery

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