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Prompt: A-Flora-ble

Yuck

Itch
It starts too late for you to know,
Like secret silent suffering waiting in the wings.

Weed
Clustered bold green leaves — Climb,
Wiggling in the light breeze, gently waving, innocently.

Bubbles
Pop. Spread. Hurt. Like. Hell.
Touch. Don’t. Touch. Don’t. Ow.
NO! Pink. Red. Yuck. Sore.

Roots
Expanding, overtaking, impossible to eradicate.
Pesticidally-, fungicidally-, chemically-created carpet lawns
Have begotten this explosion.

Time to move.

©2012 yahneverknow

NaPoWriMo2012More info on NaPoWriMo2012
(National Poetry Writing Month 2012)

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