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“How prosaic was that piece”

I yelled and screamed

words of sorrow and grief

about a writing of my own

But I never cried thus never felt relieved

about the fact that I cannot write!

     —–

My brain is filled with unfinished lines

too many stories to tell filled with dirty old lies

insomnia haunts me, but still I can’t get it right

when it comes to typing those lines down

My fingers freeze and behind the screen I hide

O, I just cannot write!

     —–

I used to think that I’d be satisfied

if I shut myself out and buried those feelings underneath

the bones of my rib-cage, but now I cannot breathe

and I’m suffocating…can you believe

I utterly cannot write!

   —–

Those stories are now eating me up inside

but I just can’t spit them out even though I tried

to scream and shout ’cause I just can’t type

them down again. It doesn’t feel right

Because I know I cannot write!

     —–

Too many distractions have taken my attention

away from the things I should be concerned

about, and now when I look at my reflection

in the mirror. Uninspired is how I feel

O, dear

it’s so clear

now I’ve a chance to make it right

I can’t just hide behind my fears

forever. I must confess that

I cannot write!

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