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Composition Fever

I must go between this journal's cover, where a blank page calls my name.
Each leaf for me to scrawl out words of happiness or pain.
Every spread of white, like untouched snow, begs me to walk around
And leave footprints with words and use this pen to build snowmen on the ground.

I must go to this place again, where composing is my art,
Where each drop of ink that flows from this pen is poison from my heart.
Each phrase a tower made of sone that cannot be torn down.
The silence of such sweet release is the most familiar sound.

I must go up to the sky in thought, where each page is one more cloud.
I could fill each with rain and know that not a word will ever fall out.
Memories are like butterflies and this journal like a net.
I could write forever and know I hadn't caught all of them yet.





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