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not a poem

Edited

There is something uncomfortable
about calling this poetry,
when it is pain.
It would be further awkward to edit this,
defining it as work, refining the ideas,
making it presentable.
 
I’ve been lost in the voyeurism of my soul,
and it laughs not with me,
but at my desperation.
Another ego to protect against all the mistakes
that a desperate person might make,
like sharing this as something meant to be shared,
or worse, to edit it, to think of fancy new metaphors,
more precise language to fully grasp the turmoil.
 
Or maybe the reflection would spur a resolution,
a relief of privilege, an acknowledgement
of proportion, then the words truly flee
any permanence, they recoil at the idea
of dissemination, they anchor themselves
through the paper, to the desk, and it’s been written
a million times, the desk is grooved with deep lines
making out familiar characters.
 
I sit again, with a fresh piece of paper,
on top of the desk and my lead sinks deep
through the paper.
The words flee.

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