I do not always write the poetry I love best
it gets stuck on the downward slope of my self
resting between the pump and the bellows
stilled to sleep by rhythms and wind
Being willful I speak to the paper after all
it cuts my fingers and eyes with strange forms
in the shape of newspapers and novels
demanding fealty and discarded dreams
Seldom do I wish to wake into a world
of easy smiles sunsets eclipsed each morning
by dawn's promises its narcotic
borrowed from the night before
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