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Undirected
My hand, with pen, it writes in script
Before my mind so guides
The words come out, they are so formed
They pour from deep inside
The subject matter, matters not
For it will all make sense
As half way through I’ll read aloud
To see just where I went
At that point then, I will decide
On where this write should go
But, until I reach completion then
My mind won’t even know
Copyright ©
Michael Degenhardt
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