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I wish I could move out of my mind — truly, a vacancy for time.
All my work is self-published, and still, I’m overly booked —
for the choice not to write, and to write not what I chose to like.
Even my thoughts need re-editing.

Glad-handing, elbow-rubbing, a little elbow grease to fry what
flips me off — and still, I can barely give my writing away for free.
But funny, how it takes freedom to write. And to steal my words
and claim them as your own — that’s not inspiration, that’s a steal.

But if a Robin’s just the bird sidekick to a Bat, does the latter swing
above the signal that calls him to play the game? Maybe I’ve been
answering too many lights in the sky, thinking they were mine.

“Lead author,” they say — comical at best.
Rest has become a suggestion, and I’m the vigilante of my own creation,
roaming the night for meaning in half-finished drafts and coffee stains.
Writer’s block fears me like a man texting his crush — hitting send,
then praying the three dots don’t disappear forever. The silence between
response and rejection is an entire anthology in my chest.

And **** — this house of a mind. Dusty sofas. ***** intentions.
But still… a home of loving thoughts, waiting for someone to move in.

Wow.

— The End —