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They’ll sink you every time

Get into your skin and set roots

Until they start feeding off the heart

Then you’re done


They’ll find it all too strange

And will plant seeds of doubt

                        The mind’ll hesitate

                        The hands’ll shake


They won’t understand the plain pictures

So much you’ll think no one

                        Can figure them out

And then the tongue’ll get dull

                        And the paths inward will overgrow


They clamor for what they want with their words

But the stoop of their shoulders

And the dead looks cry for something

                                    The likes of which

                                    Only you can imagine


They can’t see the doorways

They don’t know what lies beyond this threshold

They’ll want results and no history

They will never know the curse of the pen

                                    To think of it in the shower

                                                            Parking the car

                                                            Buying a pack of cigarettes

                                    To ache to sit in some dark place

                                                And write until you’re almost dead


                                                And write until you’re almost dead

                                    The longing to multiply into writer



                                                                                    Actual human being

                                                                                    So you can enjoy some sort of life

                                                                                                            In the sunlight

                                    Every hour of every day

                                    Praying for a century of life

                                                                        To write to write to write

                                    No sick days because colds stop the process

                                    The constant shuffling of hours

                                                            Collecting minutes and sleepless nights

All the things they don’t see

They don’t care to what hell your stories go

So why should they guide your way

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