I write in stages that last for ages.
During the time I learn who I may be:
It appears over the course of pages
And I let the longing beast in chains free.
I scream into the page like Ed Sheeran
asking for love. I breathe wind into words
as if they had left life only fearing
it, leaving me feeling a bit absurd.
When I put down the finishing touches
I take a moment to reflect on it.
And as it is released from my clutches
A sinking sensation tells me to quit.
It may just be process I can’t process
But each piece leaves me feeling quite obsessed.
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