Nov 29
Original Poem: Miss to Maid to Refined
Oh I wish it were morrow, for waiting is maniacal torture through which I want not act but to dream, yet I know dreaming is no action just. I must, must play house to near perfection, to make house true yet divine, must wake—work tough—stack tall what meets my good fortune, to deserve this to even call mine. Won’t miss, feel remiss, my losing fairless youth, may skipped in bloom, from miss to maid to refined.
