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It's Not That I Don't Want To

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I used to write things that demanded attention
Letters that exploded from my distention.
Now I radiate fisted and fanged malice
Wrought from my introverted cowardice.
C’est la vie!
Writer’s block plagues me.
The effort of living strikes me daily
The fight’s gone out of me mainly.
To even get this much out took a fidget and a choke
A chafing at the neck of my newest yoke.
I count the years because days are too slow
Months hard to chew, seconds don’t go.
Moments less fleeting than three weeks
Time moves too measuredly for me to speak.



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