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How could I

They say sadness fuels art

but how,

the curlices of my veins filling with this longing,

this hopelessness

, could I ever move,

ever even lift a finger

to flick on the light

much less

form stories and pictures with dripping strokes of ink?

How could I muster

the confidence or the energy

to splash my soul out before me in colorful strokes of pigment?






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