In Loving A Writer

In Loving A Writer

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The call to be a writer is louder than anything I've ever heard. I wanted control, so I wrote the words to a closed-off world, And it made me difficult, invective to unbind, For there were three of me, Maybe plenty, maybe unreliable, And they each all desire a conflicted completion, shared down to the ineffective spleen Of the yogi booty that fits in a cup, rinses by the towelettes, And novelettes all marked the red and grays of what-it-says-abouts, what-become-of-its, Have so slowly, so occasionally down climbed. He was a professional who could never love a mindset as unfixed as mine ...Read more

Into The Quiet

Into The Quiet

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