If there's no one around to read a word,
It just a ink on a page, naught
If there's someone to read it,
It's not the writer's word.
The word got flirted in the reader's mind,
Like a beauty,
Like a beast.
That's why a poem,
Can mean nothing to someone,
Can bring another to his knees.
We flirt through unwillingly collecting experiences,
That go towards creating flirter words.
Everything is deterministic,
Pried in words is bromidic.
Calm modest appreciation,
Easing the flow of more.
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