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By S.D. Ferrell

I never learned how to write a Haiku, does that make me less of a poet than you?

What’s with the numbers five seven five? I suppose research will explain the reason why. But preciseness would be a constant worry when all I really want to do is pen a half-ass lyrical story.

That conveys profound emotions of love gone astray. Of times long past when all we did was play. Do you remember poems from our youth that rhymed a simple sentimental truth?

One day a year we spoke of petals that were rosy red and violet-blue. We even used sticky words to describe you. We gave our heartthrob candy and a card that disguised our love in innocent regard.

Humble, unassuming, adolescent acts that were written before the reality of hardened facts. Time and experience illustrate that love hurts and that a shattered spirit will ache and heal in spurts.

We grew up with the notion that there's a prince charming for every little girl and wished it so on a falling star. In reality, we lost our innocence in the backseat of a car. Walt didn’t inform us that unrequited love is a thing and that happily ever after is not a verse every woman will sing.

I never learned how to write a haiku, that makes me no less of a poet than you!


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