(mira you belong here, Lorna DeeCervantes

)

It hastens to me now-- my quest and pen when I try to sleep it announces get it’s then I appease it, negotiate, get a break from my duty, pretend that I can turn it off for a second walk up to a counter and speak out loud and what came out would not be poetry it wouldn’t have to get to that extent because I’d be free from its torment art would not need to answer the status worthier aspects of life would sprout up I’m sure of this that I’d bet my next meal until then I will wander these verses in the search for a better existence

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