Every chance to write is a chance to write well.
Hi friends, here's Kristen and I's poem! Enjoy!Your Voice Sounds Like A ship in the night,and a gust of wind.The first sip of coffee in the morning, and a record that's lived a million lives.The rhythm of a heartbeat, and my mother tucking me into bed.The first bite of a McDonald's hamburger
Hello gang and here's mine. It's Mike.The Feel Of Your Hand Is LikeA ship in the night.The sting of a fresh sunburn.The crisp night air.Like a father's tone.A cool breeze on the nape of my neck. Adevil.
It's Mickey and Dani.The Sound of Your Voice is LikeA train barreling down the tracksready to plow me over. Or likethe morning fog,hiding the claws of a beast.Like sweet wine,Christmas cookies and cinnamon.Cat whiskers ticking my face in the morning.
Hi! This is Sam and Mika's poem. The Sound of Your Voice is LikeAfter all these years, this knife in my back beginsto sear. Like an ember, hot from the crackling fire.Your voice is like nails scratching across the blackboard. Your hair smells of the spicy berry essence of an off-brand shampoo.You feel like the crisp night air.A cool breeze on the nape of my neck.Your aurora is obnoxious like the center of a perfume shop in Macy's.
Hello. My partner and I couldn't settle on any ideas, so here is Anthony's poem.The Sound of Your Voice is likeA father's tone, stern and sincere.It reminds me of the evening newsdull and lifeless,but vital.It calms like a cat's purr.To hear it shows that someone else is happy.To feel it makes you yourself happy.Without it all seems too still.
It's Amber and here is my poem:The Sound of Your Voice is LikeThe wind blowing through the trees on an Autumn morning.Or a choir singing their song on a Sundaybeautiful and full of happiness.It's like roses, but it can also be like the devils touchfull of hatred and sin. But most of allyour voice is like children laughing,on a summer day.
This is Devon and Andrea's poem. The sound of your voice is likea warm breezelike an angel.like a garden of flowersyour voice is a soft angel.your touch is like a lifeless body.like you haven't showered.
I'm mot sure what happened to my poem, I posted it Tuesday, but now it's gone.Here it is again.The feel of your hand is likea dying animal caught in a snare. It's moist, much like a morning fog.Horrified, a screeching monkey pulling out his hair.But to me, this is nothing, because I knowyou fought. It's not Christmas, Cookies, and Cinnamon,more like a record that has lived a thousand lives.
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