Classic poem of the day
1
The rushbeds touched the boiling spring
And dipped and bowed and dipped again
The nodding flower would wabbling hing
Till it could scarce get back again
How pleasant lay the daisey plain
How twisting sweet the woodbine grew
Around the white thorn in the lane
Bedecked with gems of droppled dew —
2
Here Bloomfield lay beside the brook
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Member poem of the day
I looked in the mirror and saw someone who wasn't me,
My eyes are tired from the countless sleepless nights
My lips are dried from the words I dare not speak
My face is pale from this cage that blocks me from the sun
I looked in the mirror and saw someone who wasn't me,
My wrists are red from the blood that now stains them
My back is purple from the monster that I call my dad
My stomach grow...
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