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About This Poem
here to there
Somber, grab me by the collar intruders
chase thoughts from the corners of my asylum
I swat at them with pen strokes
they splatter on the pages
ink blots of unfinished ideas
never quite complete
leaked out before their time
awaiting sampling by connoisseurs
that I fear will reject the wine
opened before readiness
but I find that is often untrue
and savoring takes place
consumption different than expression
the connection necessary to complete the transaction
is not mine to control
I must continue the work
or suffer a horrible constipation of the mind
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