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Unknown / Unwritten

I can’t shake this feeling,

I woke up this morning with,

Something like butterflies,

Something like birds,

Which giggle until my stomach hurts,

Because of the unwritten words,

Waiting to come out,

Either in the form of flowers,

Or long letters,

But are captured in a prison,

Until they have an address,

To be delivered.

Meanwhile,

The butterflies and birds,

Are weaving poetries,

You’ll never read.

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