Sentimental crap

Pretend you’re an owl
Gliding in the starry sky
Hunting for little mice
As you hoot your battle cry
Eyes fixated on a target
You prostrate your deadly claws
Like a jouster on his wings
You strike! It has no flaws
Triumphant, you return
And close your eyes to morning grey
Stuck inside your pointy beak
The remains of tasty prey

Isn’t it better to be a human
And avoid that sentimental crap?
That’s what I was supposed to say
But I fell into my own trap
The stunning image of the owl
Now so vivid in my head
I thought I was writing the poem
But it wrote me instead

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On Birthdays

I used to cherish the years I had accumulated

With every cycle I seemed to be
Getting somewhere

The years were a sign, the proof that I was not
Stagnant

And every one of them was welcomed with open hands and joyed upon

Nowadays
I deem no celebration necessary

For I am free to celebrate whenever suitable

Not having to be bound by any
Special occasion

A good feeling is reason enough to feast about

Instead of forcing the deed
On some peculiar time
Of some particular day

Every fucking year

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A ghost of mine

Arguing with a ghost of mine
He says I’d be better off without him
And I agree
In fact, we can’t decide which one of us agrees most.
Sometimes we argue which one of us agrees least.
On occasions, we quarrel which one is more indifferent.
From time to time the ghost is not around
And I feel sad

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Suzanne

A gentle moan escapes her lips
Her eyes fixated as she moves her hips
A penis stares right back at her
It makes her fingers reach for more
And deeper still, as he plunges his cock
Into a wet, warm pussy. In a shock
Her body wiggles, squirms and falls
The image of his cum-filled balls
Engulfs her brain. Suzanne is forced
To leave behind a murky stain

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