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My Writing Precedes Me
I wish I had written the poem
That everyone else has been trying to write.
I wish I had written the masterpiece poem
I know is in me, but is not coming forward
To help me out.
My name is not important.
My rank is non-existent.
But my writing, yes, my writing precedes me.
And it shall survive my fleshly death
It shall survive my everything death
It is not that I am stressed, for it is not my way
But I am impatient with the perfect poem I know
Is somewhere inside my dendrite highway
Waiting for permission
But I cannot give that, for after it appears
It will only be downhill, right?
Copyright ©
Caren Krutsinger
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