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The Written Word

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If I spoke only when spoken to
I wouldn’t say much at all.
My words could only exist on paper,
Soon crumpled into a ball.
The lovely thing about paper
Is its fragile timelessness.
We preserve it for years into centuries
Or destroy it with one fatal rip.

I write with the strokes of an artist,
And type with the fervor of a pianist.
Passion, at its finest.





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