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The Tortured Poets Department has a writer's division that has to approve every poem before it goes out And my mind is tired of being held hostage A loose-leaf definition of writer's block was once defined by the utter of: I don't feel like writing, this isn't good enough, my hand only works for the remote today Then she interrupts my train of thought to ask: why have you never wrote a poem about me It's not that I haven't There are 100s getting as comfortable as you can be in the waste basket The last poem I Kobe shot, Melo made, and Curry posed to the trash can started like this: An eye lash is trying to make your cheek more than just a Sunday service sanctuary It wants a home I know you'd like me to remove it But who am I to destroy a home I can't help but think how beautiful you look with that eye lash As it rests there like a pair of doves flirting on a branch not far away from me What are you starring at, she exclaims Oh, nothing I reply, today I'll let the eye lash remain On Your rosy cheeks, kissed by my dead rose petal lips Reminding you of the time we went camping and you hated that you smelled the outside You hated that you smelled like outside And I kept teasing you but hiking, visualizing, and tenting next to nature is maybe the closest thing to Falling asleep to your beautiful Falling asleep to your beautiful Falling asleep to your gorgeous Ugh, I can never find the right words to describe a tenth of your gorgeous And it makes me want to drop dead out of frustration Because the writers need to feel exactly what I do when they read: Holding her hand is to get a glimpse of forever before I die Holding her makes my heart resemble the flight of a butterfly Holding her hand is to hold my battles in the palm of my hand and make them cry The writers consist of a delicious various assortment of personality; often referred to as me, myself, and I Every time I get ready to seal this poem to you the writer’s block me from letting you receive it p.s. I haven't learned to love myself enough to love you...
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