the words all sank down into me
and so there was nothing left to come out
- all crept into my intestines and
insisted on sticking to the walls
they no longer pieced themselves
together in my head
no longer queued at my
extreme-most knuckles
they've been loitering in darker places,
my beautiful words
they're vagrants now,
bums who once had a home yet
now have given up
they feel they've been doing the same thing
over and over again
and they'd rather explore
some shit-filled crevasse
than the same pristine
white page, white page
so now all my poems
are about not being able to write
poems
anymore
and that will quickly become
repetitious, too.
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