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Sep 2017
It seems that poetry has become.
A place to whine.
With form and rhythm.
Simply a minor concern.
In a sea of mediocre futile teenage angst.
Thousands of poorly written love poems.
And possession.
All of it mandated good.
By your own banality.
And fear that you aren't.
That good.
Written by
Nolan Bucsis  34/M/Somewhere in Canada
(34/M/Somewhere in Canada)   
102
 
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