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Friendzone poemHow can a man go about his deeds,
When all he can think of is you,
A love which has grown like a plant from seed,
Humbled by the thought of whether you feel it too.
Your smile and eyes haunt him,
But not in scare, it is in absence.
A love that cannot be due to hindrance,
A burden for him that feels like a sin.
Made to live a lie,
An end which is not neigh,
To be friends
Until the end.
Bo.When Lindsay was born, Bo was there. Standing beside her mother, he was the first thing she ever saw. But he was not her father; her father stood on the other side.
Bo was there until the very moment she died.
The sun shone bright through the windows of her pink-laden room. She loved pink. And black.
“Because Bo is black,” she’d told her parents.
Her imaginary friend, they soon concluded.
“Bo is all black,” she described one night as her father tucked her in, “His skin and his hair and everything. He doesn’t talk a lot.”
Her father frowned.
“He sounds scary.”
“He’s not,” she insisted.
Bo sat on the bed and said nothing.
Her father kissed her good night and turned out the light.
“Why can’t Dad see you?” she asked.
“Are you real?”
“Are you real?” he replied.
“How do you know?”
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