Whose works I feed upon
Take days and weeks and months
To churn out Pulitzer winning
Masterpieces.
And I-
I sit on the edge of the bed
Hiding behind my own shadow
Thumbs on my phone
Furiously excreting honesty
With no rhyme scheme,
No guarantees of fruition,
And no before or after.
My poetry takes ten minutes
But also a lifetime
And once it leaves my head
Like liquid ink on paper,
It dries into a reality
That shall always remain to be
Mine.
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