Poetry is not easy.
Had not been, so many times.
Running daylong makes difficult forcing mind.
Yes, forcing to write
While thoughts in head
Whirl restlessly and chatter and cry;
Scavenging for even a shred of thought,
Is tiring, endless, boring too.

And then there’s “I”.
I can’t escape, it seems, this “I”.
It comes on pages all I write.
I’m all I write, and firmly so.
They say it’s wrong,
Indecent, crude
So subjective, and passionate too.
But when did I write for them?

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