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A poet's dream
In the middle of the night
On the lapel of my shirt
In the crevice of my arm
In the illumination of street lamps
In my old and beat up journal
That I cherish like my life
Written quickly in the darkened ink of mascara
Rushing to put down words
That frequently toss and turn in my mind
In the train as I feel the vibrations of its movement
And the rush of its wind
Written discreetly in a napkin
In the sloppy wax of crayons
Will I ever be a writer
Published in the magazines
Signing books
And greeting fans
Become eternal in a textbook
When my generation’s dead and gone
I just want to make a difference
Not just sloppy beat up notebooks
In sloppy illegible scripts
Crowded by silly little doodles
Just to wile away the time
I want to be a Maya Angelou
Or a Edgar Allan Poe
Sew my words and reap it’s fruits
In the hearts and minds of others
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