I Live in a Flee

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I live in a flee who is always by a tree. He tells me secrets that make me say gee. I don't disturb him when he counts to three. As he counts he pulls out his key, and is always sure to look up and give it to me. I ask him if he had ever seen any other kind of flee. He tells me that it's only me and he. He says that flying is like soaring through one part of the world and feeling as tiny as an ant in the process. Sometimes the breeze makes me cold and my teeth s-s-s-start to c-c-chater. It feels like an airconditioning vent is always right above me blowing cold and hard air at me. But what can I say I live in a flee who is always by a tree.





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thedeadpoet said...
Oct. 16, 2009 at 12:10 pm
Nice personification....very good story...i enjoyed your poem
 
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