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Drip.

Poems cannot be forced
I try to write it
I squeeze the sponge for the last drop
Is there nothing left?

Sometimes it's a thundercloud
roaring with lyrics
flowing through my veins
through to the ink
on the page

Sometimes it's a sink
I can turn it on
and off
rushing, gushing
dripping, dropping
dry
no green.

Sometimes it's a fountain
sometimes it's a stream
sometimes it's a mountain
and sometimes it's a scream

Sometimes it's a hill
or a shrill
meant for life
or meant to kill
and sometimes it's a sponge
that cannot drink
or drip
or fill



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