A new trackless train of thought - tracked.
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To the girls who write poetry,
who restrict themselves from
the pickings of alluring petals
freshly plucked from crimson buds
and art that is gushed at them
with love, who feel through ink
and verse, to these girls with
vines strapped around their
hearts, who suffer from stanza
and crumble in haikus, who’d rather
tear novels than a soul. To them
as they watch from a distance,
hoping they were, hoping someone