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STUBBORN
My intention is to write some prose
Why it comes out poems, nobody knows
I struggle, wiggle, leave me alone
As I sit happily writing a poem
Words are created and suddenly rhyme
I hardly revise them – I’ve not the time
Give up the idea of writing a book?
I feel I’m caught by a crook and a hook
Following rules as the semester unfolds
Smothers my brain; puts creating on hold
When I find a second that isn’t filled
I’ll write a poem, ‘cause I’m strongly self-willed!
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