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I Write Far Too Much

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I write far too much.
Haikus, short stories and attempts
At a great novel.
(Sometimes I take a stab at
Nonfiction, but it
Ends up stabbing me)
I write every day,
Counting syllables on my
Inky finger tips.
I write far too much.
Not that you would know because
Most of it is trash
And ends up covered in tea
Or dog urine or
Some other toxic substance
Which is fine because
It truly really is pure trash.
I write far too much.
But some of it actually turns out
Pretty well (I think).
Until I wake up the next day
And look at the words
That seemed so genius last night,
And see how banal
My attempt at writing was.
I write far too much.
But sometimes I think I have
Something really good.
Until I show it to my mother
(or someone like that)
And they arch their brows and say
“This is really—“
(I watch them search for words
Before they settle on
“unique” and I sigh
Because I know it must be
Really very bad.)
I write far too much.
I really ought to take break.
(something my keyboard would like)
And I am really not good
At poetry or dialogue
And even worse I know it.
I write far too much.
And yet I have no plans to stop
The painful process.
(See I just wrote a poem
Declaring that I write far too much).

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