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We walked a path, but not together You walked it while danger slept You walked it in sunny weather You walked through on fields of heather You walked while the streams ran wet  
Our passions go out Not with a bang but a whimper Not with a whimper but a whisper Not with a whisper but a shout
No one is a real poet. Someone always has it worse than you. Real poets are the women in far away countries that don't know how to read Women right in front of us that are afraid to say their significant other hurts them
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