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messages in ink
is drama what it is? is it
 real? Do we care?
 Perhaps that's why it's drama.
 My head
 is a lake
 a shimmering tree
 rippling with present and thoughts
 of speech.
 My hands are full of ink.
 Drama, the worm, brown
 sneaks it.
 Instead of polluting the lake,
 it is a pretty, ugly rock
 jutting up from ripples turned into waves.
 A big, funny-looking bird sits in the tree.
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