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unTITLED

She can write poems.
Her words may have not always rhymed,
But always told a story.
Sometimes they just came to her.
Sometimes she had to sit and think about an idea.
Her hand flew across the pages at some points.
Other times she wrote slow thinking about each word.

When the time came to find the name of the poem,
None seemed to fit.
Her creativity seemed to flow out of her,
And she was left with a blank mind.
So she merely just called this one
unTITLED.





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