Write, write, write —
write some more.
Free these feelings,
open the door.
I’m nothing special,
I’m not the best.
I’m not perfect.
I need rest.
But rest never
charges me,
on the floor
I start to plea.
For energy
to move my form,
to clean and cook,
to weather storms.
It’s not storming,
I’m calm inside.
Oh how I wish
to bury pride.
Little rhymes
I try to make,
more than I’ll share
for goodness sakes!
This poem stinks,
but hey I wrote!
That’s the point
you silly oaf!
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