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Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Tragedy · #680992
I suspect I am just writing the same old poem over and over again.
I am writing one poem repeatedly.
I am a record album, my scratched & skipping lyrics caught
in the recycled verse of vision uncorrected,
of pecking questions that beg
like the tired man at the corner holding cardboard: Please Help.

I cast hopes as pennies camouflaged in bronze canyons;
I make Declarations of Importance:

         I the Ego,
         hereby puffed and cracked and
         simultaneously, numb,
         demand ancient answers, ever un-coming.

I will write one poem repeatedly
until I stop
writing one poem repeatedly.

I am writing one poem repeatedly.
It is the only poem there is, and to write it is the only thing to do.

I am blocking the aisle at the grocery store.
My car has stalled in the middle of the intersection.
I am letting my hair go gray, and there is no makeup on my face.

I say “I’m sorry” a hundred times a day.

I am a record album, scratched & skipping sotto voce screaming
in a whisper.

I am thinking of retiring the needle altogether.

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