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by
Eliot
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Poems
Nov 2023
Capture
I'll try to create an image of this convex feeling.
It's imperfections on a perfect painting,
Or dull colours in the sky on a beautiful day,
Or roughly shaven, golden stubble, with a part too long.
Its the sound of loneliness in a room full of extroverts,
A fire alarm blaring through a heavy metal concert.
The taste of strepsil.
Can't I decay while I progress? I want to go somewhere, and I know where, I'm helpless, since I know how to help myself, but don't want or need.
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