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Drowsy saturday nights with you...
Almost every single kiss seems overdue
But then..it's perfect
You make me not want to forget you
All the time...even the smallest thing can make me miss you
Passing cars, small sayings..you're everywhere
I  can't describe how badly I miss you..
Flashing lights, oversized T-shirts..I miss it all
Often times I just fall
But there's no one to help me up
I miss you so much, the smallest things **** me
I'm dying to hear your voice
But here, I have no choice
I'm stuck here
I'm so sorry
This poem isn't anything special. It's just something from my journal.
 Sep 2014 Mia Diederich
Anais Nin
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)

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