A poem is stuck somewhere inside me.
I try coughing it out.
But it has its own plans.
It'll sit there, brewing in feelings.
Till I have a boiled hot mess.
Only if I had let it out.
Note to self: a poem is nature's call.
Just shit it out.
I try coughing it out.
But it has its own plans.
It'll sit there, brewing in feelings.
Till I have a boiled hot mess.
Only if I had let it out.
Note to self: a poem is nature's call.
Just shit it out.
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