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Forks and Spoons
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Spunky Fresh If all of life's decisions shape into forks
I guess that I'm a spoon
A sucker for the truth at which I can't consume
The problem is the youth you say
And growing up will trim these frays
That hang on ever so loosely
Place them in a box atop the rocks
Til their colors turn to grey
That's where they stay.
But its okay
As the crying child begs for hope
I pull out my kaleidoscope
And morph the lies to beauty
No secret shall subdue me.
