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It could be serious this thing that we call poetry, or it could be lack of sleep, of caffeine, of chocolate that drives us into the night, into coffee houses and restaurant-bars seeking open mic readings and slam competitions. It could be a matter of survival that makes us inscribe stanza and line when the housework goes undone, the laundry piles up, the car needs oil and the bills go unpaid; or it could be that we are possessed by the demons of our own ambitions. Whatever it is it cannot be denied or put aside for lesser loyalties.
© Copyright 2005 Prosperous Snow (UN: nfdarbe at Writing.Com).
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