My touch for poetry has passed.
The cold sterility of prose
Now seeps into the morning hours
When worry for my writing grows.

I scratch some lines with scratchy pens
Which tear into the paper blank.
And Anger shows its helmsman skills
As Writing takes the pirate plank.

I weep for sleep I missed for this.
I weep for years I spent in vain.
But then I breathe in belly deep
And plunge into my chosen pain.

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