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Sep 2016
convey, contain, explain the pain,
the unbearable straining 'gainst tons over weight,
like inevitable cracking 'fore porcelain breaks--
to slash 'cross the page like so many small veins,
to set ink a'flowing like filth in the rain,
to put words to paper (less likely to fade
than those meaningless noises that most people make)?

How lonesome, the cold sound, the poetry scratching
the sad, angry nib makes when blanks come a'bounding,
to conquer attempts made at filling the space
(the more full the margins the less full my brain),
the keening, the whining, erasing the phrase
created in lieu of composing my face,
Denied, stamped and branded, made nothing the matter,
               no meaning, validity-- like me, ever after.
Written by
Batya  Israel
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