I used to be a poet...
wrapping my teenage self in poetry
larking about with words, o glorious, vain glorious words...
a long time now,
since a poem
has sprung forth
fully formed, half-assed, or otherwise
from me
perhaps my soul has become stilted
and steeped
in the mundane inanities of the life that lives in my head;
that endless stream of things to do, things to be said
checklists make terrible poems
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