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About This Poem
THE PERFECT POEM
So stuck on fastidious thoughts, unable to make these lines rhyme;
it's like ice trapped between mountains cliffs waiting for spring...
can moodiness and dissatisfaction create the perfect poem?
For hours I tackle the unresponsive feeling that's too latent;
the language is languid, not flowing as smoothly as it should...
'till the rising of dawn words will sound lame and escape from my pen.
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