Waiting

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The poetry is just flowing out of my head.
It just comes gushing free, and laying
Out in the heat
To dry on the pages,
And on the pages,
They look a lie.
I’m crashing up,
You’re mending down,
And not fast enough,
And while I crash,
Maybe the worlds will be made read,
And the words will be set free,
So maybe these pages will mean more,
Than idleness.





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