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Aug 2016
My ink isn't dry,
it just heeds the needing of release,  
   and in this moment it is reserved
                  behind a dam of wowful thinking.

Will I unleash the gates, or stem the tide of
                                                           discontent.
Letting it linger in pools of what I feel deeper
                                       than what others think.

A puddle is an illusion,
for it can linger in minimal space,
                 but beneath it
is a lagoon of sadness
                   that swallowed all I now think.
Poetic T
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Poetic T  On Oblivions Doorstep
(On Oblivions Doorstep)   
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       Poetic T, Mack and warp
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