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Oct 2020
I keep waiting to write the poem
that changes everything.
That twists my whole perception of the world
and its perception of me too.

Is it obtuse
to think that I have words worth reading
thoughts worth seeing
printed in ink
and published on page after page?

Is it stupid of me to think
I could quit everything else
love nothing else
and be one of those sad artists
who dies alone in a room
so inspired by my own complexities,
that I don't need a view?

What is that like?
To be so sure
and passionate
that everything else is static
to know
or at least feel
like nothing is more beautiful
or delicate than that art...

To never be abandoned again
or fail
or is it always failure?

And wouldn't I like to fail?
Just for a minute
and take it all back
if the taste is too bitter.

I keep waiting to write the poem that changes everything.
The poem that changes me.
That makes me brave
or better
softer or stronger
I don't care which.

I want to be that fluid, translucent being
whose tears are written into her skin  
whose desires stream out like songs.

But I can't write that poem.
And if I change anything,
the one thing
would change everything
and I am scared to leave this girl
whose skin is so thin
and whose heart is open to bleed out
with nothing
more than a never-used,
sharp pen
if I never write that poem.
Written by
egghead  22/F
     ap, Jeff Stirrat and Rich Hues
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