Never Say Never
Poetry feels pitiful besides the brute weight of reality. Why bother these imaginings when there are dishes to be done? That vague window of liberation gets smaller and tighter each day anyway, why the striving and the pushing and the clearing through brush? Why all this concern?
Perhaps it's because, in the end, we know we need the therapy. Someone on the other end, fine. If not, I'll sing in this echo chamber till my lungs grow eyes. (Which will never happen.)
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