My tirade
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With a Quaver rhythm...
I pontificate my love in a rhetoric speech
I rue the fact that I blunt the last time we talked
I rue my unspoken feeling of been exigent
I get qualms every time you ignore my presence
Is cursing my name still make you satiated?
You are no longer prudence
You are no longer a nincompoop
But your zeal is still getting higher when you touch my skin
With a quaver rhythm...
My tirade is no longer satisfying
My restive character is no longer fragrant
And between me and you, there is a hiatus barrier reek of flowers
Kismet, searching for a panacea of our disease
Dictionary:
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