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on poetry

i hunt for words between the lines
curtains parted at the window

strands of hair on your pillowcase
and the pages of literature better than mine
i try to focus
at the lens of a kaleidoscope
traveling through a tunnel on the back of a pickup truck

it’s only the tip of my pen and it’s pattern on the paper

the negative space between my stream of ink tells
a story much truer than the one i write
yesterday today
your name
an ACT vocab word
and the content of my dreams the night prior
trickle into my fingers
like snowflakes

my metaphors are often polluted
with arbitrary words in which i cannot define
i conclude
with a bang or possibly an extreme lack of
in the form of a stanza
hindered by vacancy

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