The thing I struggle with the most
As poet practising the craft
Is pruning branches off the point
And grafting space into the draft.

I bargain with myself about
The clues to cut, the keys to keep,
The room to leave the reader with,
So they can make with me the leap.

To not react to everything,
To not relate it all in flow,
To pick the point to write about,
A thicker skin I need to grow:

A patina of perspective
Protecting the peculiar
Against the acid raining from
The frequent and familiar.

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