This paper in front of me,
stares at me,
I return the stare vaguely,
I have ideas,
that need to travel,
the distance to paper,
My pen is willing,
but hand is not,
wrists ache,
as more ideas,
come clamoring,
for escape,
I am making effort,
to queue them,
in discipline,
they areclimbing,
from all over,
in pell mell,
poor paper,
sits worthlessly there,
waiting for me to give it dress,
and give it value,
its only...
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