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On the first Sunday of every month,
We go to the shooting range,
three generations and I,
We go there to escape from
the pain and regret
We go there to shoot
bow and arrows
and the bullets in our guns.
we go there to be free
on the first Sunday of every month
My great-grandfather, my papa, and my dad and I always go to the shooting competitions every first Sunday of the month and we do it to escape from my always drunk great-uncle (papa's brother) and my always high, always drunk, abusive uncle (dad's brother).
I fell asleep last night with her in my bed.
My Floridian princess,
Call her my Miami Vice.
She summons euphoria in a dystopia.
She makes me sing.
I find her so perfect when she lays there in her natural beauty.
So pure.
And find myself drawn to those lips,
even when shes dressed up in lace.
So much power, she scares me sometimes, I love her.
Just wanna hold her.
My baby.
The way she makes me melt,
Until I'm just liquid wax at the bottom of my favorite candle,
I couldn't compare to anything.
She kisses my lips, my cheeks and my third eye, ever so softly.
Then lingers around my head, and my bed for hours until she finally leaves.
While I sit and just miss her.
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