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verse.


i don’t know
what i think of when i write
i just know there isn’t anything
in me, that would stop

if i just went going,
with nothing but favorite words
stuck somewhere between my
thoughts and squashed pillows

i can paint ceilings
with nothing but verse, stanzas
except they wouldn’t make sense
it’d just be careless graffiti art

that nobody in the world but me
understands.

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