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"Poem"
The blank sheet before me is no longer
 blank; it is etched
 with erratic black marks,
 smeared hieroglyphics spelling
 out words that don't make sense
 yet, forming a meaning
 that hasn't begun to exist. 
 The language is still being composed;
 it too is a blank sheet, 
 still being filled up with the 
 short
 thin 
 lines,
 squiggles, curls and inky dots
 linking each letter and word to the next,
 stamped in black onto the white,
 and each pressed key
 unlocks something new.
 This is no longer a blank sheet,
 this is my poem. 
 But does it mean enough?

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